#the smaller one are always a flop even straight out from the store

[chaotictomtom]

when the con keeps claving amirite

[ratatoastwrites]

It’s my party, and I’ll cry if I want to

Spencer Reid x reader

Synopsis: Your birthday is definitely not a joyous occasion for you. Luckily, your cute neighbour might just make it a little better.

wc: 825

cw: kind of hurt/comfort, can be read as platonic, no gendered pronouns (if i remember correctly) but reader own a skirt, pretty short, open ending-ish, reader is straight up not having a good time, but nothing extra happens, oh and reader is in college/uni

a/n: guess who’s turning 22 in less than half an hour!! 🧌 this is mostly a vent fic, but i just made up some parts to make it less personal lol. um but yea, I wish I had Spencer Reid to cheer me up on my not-so-good bday (even though it’s not technically my bday yet)

also!!! i realised that i’m not the best at writing fluff, but if you guys want a smutty continuation to this, feel free to yell at me in my inbox 🧚‍♀️ oh and my wips are still cooking, it’s just busy season at uni for me #businessmajor

Arriving back at your apartment, you all but slammed your bag down next to the shoe rack, before kicking off your converse like a fussy toddler. Tears were already clouding your vision, hot, angry, frustrated, making your vision blurry as you trudged deeper into your home.

You flopped down onto your couch, face down, tears silently pouring out of your eyes. You stayed like that for approximately thirty seconds, before springing up with a gasp, realising that your wet, runny makeup was soaking into the throw pillow’s fabric — a fuzzy, dusty pink, because of course it had to be a light colour.

You stood up from your couch, beginning to pace the carpeted floor of your living room, while your hands rubbed your face, further smudging your already murky makeup. Your fingers slid into your hair, grasping at your messy strands, before you finally sank down into a sitting position, on the edge of the couch.

And then you just lost it. Your sobs filled your otherwise quiet apartment, the sound so broken and pitiful, that if someone overheard, they’d think you just received the worst news of your life. Your shoulders shook with the force of your sobs, your body trembling from the sheer sadness and irritation you were experiencing.

It was your birthday. Something that was supposed to be a joyous occasion, and yet, it always ended up being the most cursed part of your year. You woke up with sore joints, the kind that even your morning yoga routine couldn’t quite fix. Then, you burnt your scrambled eggs, and fixing that mess made you late for class —a lecture that you already really didn’t want to attend. It was nearing final’s season, which was a constant, added layer of stress as well, and you were up to your ears with studying and assignments and deadlines.

Your mood was already sour, and it seemed like the universe was only trying to test your limits further. The barista got your order wrong, and then acted all pissy when you dared to complain. You had a fight with one of your friends, then another altercation with another one of your friends.

And the very worst thing, that ruined your mood whenever it crossed your mind: your skirt. Specifically, your vintage Gerry Weber skirt, that was used to be in perfect condition, despite the fact that you had found it at a thrift store for one (1!) dollar, on sale. It was your pride and your joy. Until yesterday, when you put it into the washing machine, and it came out five sizes smaller, and with the underskirt hanging out on the bottom. Ruined. Just like your life.

You were considering ordering some unhealthy takeout and a bottle – or two – of wine, just to dull your sorrows a little, when you heard a knock on your door. You raised your head from your hands, sniffling in confusion. You weren’t expecting anyone —if you had, you wouldn’t have let yourself end up looking like a pitiful mess.

You were considering ignoring it, but then whoever was on the other side decided to knock again. You stood up with a shaky sigh, trying to wipe your face with the sleeves of your sweater, in the hopes of looking less ghastly when you opened the door.

Whoever you were – or weren’t – expecting, it definitely wasn’t your very pretty, very awkward looking neighbour, who was shifting from one foot to the other in front of your doorway.

“Spencer?” You asked, like you couldn’t quite believe your eyes. Your voice was rough, hoarse and wet from all the crying and the force of your sobs.

“Yeah, hi. Uhm, I was just stopping by to say happy birthday, but… Are you okay?”

He sounded so sweet, so genuine in his concern, that it tugged on your heartstrings. But what really did it was the fact that he remembered your birthday. He remembered, and he cared enough to show up at your door, to wish you a happy birthday, despite his hectic schedule. Despite the fact that the two of you have only spoken a handful of times before, in the past three months that you’ve been living next to him.

“Do you want to come in?” You asked, the words leaving your mouth before your brain could even register them. “I mean, you don’t have to, of course. I know that you’re super busy, I just–“

“Sure,” he cut off your rambling with a small, charmingly awkward smile. “I have a feeling that we could both use some company.”

And so you stepped to the side with a small, but genuine smile, letting him enter your apartment.

Sure, you didn’t particularly like your birthday. It somehow always ended up being the shittiest part of your year. But if it ended with your sweet, endearingly nerdy neighbour in your living room, well… Maybe it wasn’t the worst day of your life, after all.

[squidsquidsquidsquidsquidgame]

Late night snack run

Character: season 1 gi hun x fem!reader

Summary: Gi hun wakes you up in the middle of the night to go on a good ol' snack adventure🦑🦑

Warnings: none

A soft nudge against your shoulder pulled you out of sleep. You grumbled, shifting to the side, but the nudge turned into a full shake.

"Hey," a familiar voice whispered. "Wake up."

You cracked one eye open to see Gi-hun crouched beside the bed, his messy hair sticking up in all directions. He had that boyish grin on his face, the one he always wore when he was up to something.

"What?" you mumbled.

"I'm hungry."

You sighed. "Then eat something."

"There's nothing good in the fridge," he whined, dramatically flopping onto the mattress. "Come on, let’s go to the convenience store. It'll be fun."

"It's the middle of the night, Gi-hun."

"Exactly! That makes it an adventure." He gave you his best pleading look, eyes wide, lips slightly pouted. You knew you were doomed.

With a groan, you sat up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. "You owe me for this."

"Of course, of course," he said, already grabbing your jacket and handing it to you. "I'll buy you anything you want. Even those expensive chocolate bars you like."

"You mean the ones that cost, like, 1,500 won?"

"Hey, on my budget, that’s expensive," he teased, helping you into your jacket.

_______________________________________

The streets were quiet, except for the occasional rustling of leaves in the cool night breeze. The glow of the streetlights cast long shadows as you walked side by side, Gi-hun occasionally kicking a stray pebble down the pavement.

"You know," he mused, stuffing his hands into his pockets, "late-night snacks always taste better. It’s a scientific fact."

You raised a brow. "Oh yeah? Which scientist said that?"

He paused. "Uh… Dr. Gi-hun. Ever heard of him?"

You laughed, lightly nudging his arm. "Sounds like a scam artist to me."

"Hey! I’ll have you know Dr. Gi-hun has done extensive research in the field of midnight cravings."

"Oh really?"

"Yes. Years of experience. Peer-reviewed by fellow snack lovers."

You rolled your eyes, but your smile lingered as the two of you approached the tiny convenience store at the corner of the street.

Inside, the fluorescent lights buzzed faintly as you wandered the aisles. Gi-hun immediately made a beeline for the instant noodles, grabbing two different flavors and holding them up.

"Which one?" he asked.

"Spicy," you said without hesitation.

"Good choice. A true connoisseur."

You shook your head, grabbing a couple of drinks while he piled the basket with snacks—some chips, a pack of gummies, and, of course, the overpriced chocolate bar he promised you.

At the counter, the elderly cashier barely glanced up, used to late-night customers like you. Gi-hun chatted with her as she rang up the items, effortlessly slipping into easy conversation like he always did.

Outside, you sat on the curb, warm instant noodles in hand. Steam curled into the chilly air as you both slurped the noodles straight from the cup.

"This is the best meal I’ve ever had," Gi-hun declared dramatically.

"You said that about the kimbap we had last week."

"And I meant it at the time."

You chuckled, shaking your head. The night was peaceful, the kind of quiet that made the world feel smaller, like it was just the two of you in your own little pocket of time.

As Gi-hun tilted his noodle cup to drink the last of the broth, he sighed contentedly. "See? Aren’t you glad I woke you up for this?"

You looked at him, his hair still messy, eyes bright despite the late hour. He looked happy, truly happy, and that made it worth it.

"Yeah," you admitted. "I guess I am."

He grinned, nudging your shoulder. "Told you. Midnight snack science never lies."

You rolled your eyes, but you leaned into him anyway, letting the quiet comfort of the moment settle around you.

🦑🦑🦑

[endobiologist]

Trans Guy Tips #5; Dressing Good

Today, we're going to talk about basic fashion, and some things trans guys specifically need to know when buying a new wardrobe.

Some of these rules can always be broken, it's your body and your choice what to put on it!

However, this is a guide for passing better, so feminine and androgynous looks will not be covered here, only the traditional masculine. I will most likely make a guide out on dressing that way later.

1. Match colors, but don't be afraid to throw in some accent detail colors! Usually when you think of fashion, you think of making everything match, however some things will go better with some contrast rather than plainly matching!

As long as it still has some similarity, it doesn't have to be the same.

The most basic rule you need to learn dressing as a man, is that you wear your belt to your shoes.

If your belt is brown, so should your shoes be.

If your belt is black, they should be black.

Usually most fashion rules can be broken, but this one seems to be very important, as it can throw off the whole appearance of an outfit to have mismatching shoes and belt.

2. Use what I call the finger trick.

When selecting a shirt, specifically a dress shirt, put your fingers in the collar between your neck and the collar.

If you can comfortably fit two or even maybe barely three fingers in there, then that's a perfect fit shirt around your neck.

If you can fit four or more fingers, it's loose and will make you look baggy and overweight.

If you can fit only one, or feel any pressure on your throat, you need a looser shirt because it's too tight.

3. Somewhat similar, but when buying pants, this may be the most important thing of all.

If you get the right set of pants, it can disguise even the biggest of curves.

You want to get what's known as a straight-leg jean pant, you can make it a cargo pant if you wish, either one looks very masculine and good.

I would usually recommend bootcut pants if you wear longer shoes, like boots, or combat boots, or anything you need to tuck the jeans into.

Always get pants that don't feel constricting, and always get them where they fit comfortably with a belt, but don't need a belt due to fitting good already.

But straight-leg type is so important to go for, it's one of the things that makes a boxy figure like a cis man's.

4. I'm not sure if this is obvious or may come as a surprise to some people, but even if you like dressing femininely, if you wish to pass, I would suggest always shopping in the men's section.

They have shirts and pants and everything else under the sun that shaped specifically for men's bodies, making yours look even more like a cis man's, which is very gender affirming. Also women's jeans are made to support the butt and make you look feminine and curvy, while men's are designed to be straight, boxy, and comfortable, usually with deep pockets too!

5. Similar to the matching rule before, you can match a busy pattern shirt with a plain pair of pants, or busy pattern and pants with a plain shirt. However if you put too many busy patterns, or too much plainness, either way makes you look not as good.

Try to balance the detail with the simplicity.

6. Overall the most masculine thing you can wear especially pre-t, is either a formal or casual suit.

You can even wear just a dress shirt with a tie or bow tie, with some dress shoes and pants, and you're good!

This just generally makes you look super masculine and it's hard to mistake.

7. if you're like me, where you like to dress flamboyantly, but you're also super dysphoric about it, wait until you get testosterone therapy.

If you end up having it and you start seeing positive effects before dressing femininely, it's great!

I did this and now I feel totally comfortable with it, as no one ever misunderstands me even if I wear the most feminine things ever.

So if you're going on t, feel free to dress more extravagantly during because you will pass even so!

8. Another way to check shirts that are long sleeved, particularly dress shirts, is to tuck it in like usual, and then lift up your arms really high like you're reaching for something.

If it untucks or lifts the fabric in an unflattering way where your armpits look huge, it's cut wrong and is not something you should buy.

9. This may be surprising to some, but yes, cis men will wear feminine designs on masculine outfits.

I can't count the number of times I've seen men wearing bright pink suits. Other times there's been crop tops, painted nails, hair done, everything.

So if you really like that button up with the flowers on it, but are feeling hesitant due to the feeling that people might judge you, don't worry!

Maybe some will, but a lot of people wear unique clothing, and no one will be as bad as what your thoughts say to you.

10. I have somewhat of a warning, as good and fun they are, t-shirts can be very revealing when it comes to showing your chest, even through your binder! Something about them isn't cut quite right, even if they come from the manliest man's site or store.

If you still wish to wear t-shirts like I do, I would recommend getting a short-sleeved or long-sleeved Dickies button up jacket/shirt that you wear open over it. Or any jacket thing, really. This covers your chest completely and negates that effect.

11. This is sort of more hygiene base but still has to do with getting dressed. Always use men's soap, and men's cologne, and men's essential oils, and men's lotion, if you have them.

Also use some aftershave, it's helpful if it has lotion mixed in and moisturizes as well.

You can even shave even if you're pre-t, due to it making a clean feeling due to there being no feminine peach fuzz on it. This can help support dysphoria relief, as well because it feels like you're shaving a beard, at least until it comes in.

When your moustache and beard do come in from testosterone, if you take it, make sure to oil it lightly with natural oils like argan oil or coconut oil, the stimulates hair growth and follicle health.

And I would recommend shaving just once as it starts developing, so it develops thicker, stronger, and more handsome.

12. If you're planning on going on t, buy at least some of your clothing a size or a few sizes up, or getting a duplicate that's larger.

You will grow, so if you buy all your clothing in a smaller size, you'll probably end up unable to use any of it.

13. Always position your belt buckle in the center of your stomach, the way you can tell if it's positioned right is if it lines up with the buttons of your button up perfectly.

14. When wearing a suit try to always keep the bottomless button unbuttoned. That button isn't actually there to be used, it's meant to be unbuttoned and it makes it look so much better.

The reason it looks so much better is because it makes it flattering and thinning. If you button all the buttons, it will make you look heavy due to it tightening around your waist and stomach.

15. You should always have at least two pairs of dress shoes. one pair that's black, and one pair that's brown. Same with belts. It's also recommended for summer that you keep one pair of masculine flip flops or sandals or sneakers around.

16. This is more of a suggestion than anything, however it's manly as fuck, and people love it.

If you carry a work knife, a pocket watch, a small portable multitool, and a handkerchief.

Possibly even a pen and small notepad with you at all times.

This may seem odd at first, but it's what men used to do constantly in the older days.

These items can come in very useful. A work knife can open packages, open letters, be used in place of scissors occasionally, and even used to defend yourself and others.

A pocket watch is just fancy and shows you're always trying to be on time.

A multi-tool shows you're ready for any task, and it can be a lifesaver in many situations!

Meanwhile a handkerchief is important, because if you ever come across someone crying, or someone wounded, you can lend them or give them your handkerchief, which is a very gentlemanly thing to do, and it can help you pass better, as well as it just being a kind thing to do for someone.

The pen and small notepad is always good to carry on you regardless of any gender, due to you needing to write things down often.

17. Ironically, although socks with sandals seems to be a fashion 'no-no' to most people, I quite like them, and it seems like I pass better with them.

Men tend to wear those slip-on flip flop things, and when you wear socks with it it makes you look very masculine, even if it may look silly to some.

Personally I like it a lot.

18. If you do wish to do makeup & nails, I would suggest doing it as black and gothic as possible, as that's the most common style guys do it as, and if you do it in a certain way, it can come out looking way masculine.

And that concludes my fifth part of this Trans Guy Tips series!

Thank you for reading, and I hope anything I said helped!

[windows98whore]

Welcome home

An: You’re tired and stressed from a shite day at work. Your husband is more than happy to release that tension for you. Just a short Drabble to cope with a bad day.

Warnings: Vaginal sex, comfort after a bad day. Cumming inside?

Word Count:

Characters: Katsuki Bakugo

All characters are aged up. Divider credits are at the bottom of the post.

Just imagine coming home, dog ass tired. It’s cold out, and you bundled up for the bus ride to and from work, then the grocery store. You drop the bag of groceries you’d forced yourself to get for dinner and kick off your shoes at the door before you start peeling off a fleece and a big coat to hang on the hooks by the door. Your hat and scarf come next, and you shake out your curls, rubbing a hand down your neck. Despite the cold, the way your hair had been pressed against your skin had left you damp with sweat. You didn’t bother calling out that you were home, Katsuki was used to you coming home around this hour, and if he wasn’t on a patrol or mission, he was almost always in one spot.

From the doorway you could see Katsuki planted in that familiar recliner in front of the tv, watching the news of course, a cup in his hands. He looks up when you saunter in and plop yourself on top of his spread thighs with a tired sigh. He sets his cup on the end table and scans your back, noting the visible tension in your muscles.

He doesn’t speak. Instead, he runs warmed fingers up and down your arms, helping you shed your blazer, leaving you in a simple button up. He takes his time, unbuttoning each button and pressing warm, soothing kisses down your neck and back, his lips soft against your shoulders.

You catch a glimpse of his silver wedding band glinting in the lamp light and thread the fingers of one of your hands into his. Palm to palm, the only sounds between you for a moment, is the droning on of newscaster on the tv. You enjoy the roughness on his skin, the calloused fingers once used for fighting, ever so gentle and sweet with you, when you need it.

He knew work was stressful. Knew you wanted to quit too, and go into another field or just work anywhere else. He didn’t prod, no use in having you repeat your usual rants about paperwork and bitching supervisors and never getting anything the way they liked it. He rubs a thumb on your palm and presses his lips against your back.

“Let me make you feel good.” He mumbles against your skin. He releases your smaller hand and sets his hands gently on your hips to lift you off of his lap. The two of you walk slowly, to the bedroom, and not long after you flop down onto your plush bed with a huff, Katsuki’s body follows right behind, moving to push your pencil skirt and panties down your hips in one easy sweep, until the expensive fabric gathers around your ankles. You kick them off, not caring where they end up right now.

Katsuki resumes his lazy kisses, alternating between kitten licks and gentle suckles. He expertly undoes the clasp of your bra and takes both breasts into his hands to massage at the supple skin with a soft groan.

“Beautiful.” He murmurs against your neck. He relishes the way your back arches and the sighs that tumble from your supple lips as he rolls your pert nipples between his fingers. He pinches ever so slightly, smirking when you gasp. Katsuki releases your right breast and flips you over to trail a hand down your stomach, rough fingers ghosting over your belly to your thighs.

He pulls you in by your hip, and ruts into your shapely ass, groaning at the way your ass feels against his hardening cock. He wants to give it to you, fuck you until you’re relaxed and cuddly and sleepy, but he takes his time. This is about your pleasure and he wants you to know that. His fingers dip towards you heat, and he parts your lips to rub a warm finger over your clit.

The pressure sends jolts of pleasure up your spine. You mewl his name quietly, which only spurs him on. “Good girl...” he’s whispering, voice deep from arousal. “Like that? Like how I touch you?” His words just add to your growing pleasure as he thumbs your clit, circling it expertly in just the right way. He runs his fingers down to your entrance, collecting slick between his pointer and middle finger.

As much as he’s aching to be inside you, he’s gentle, slow even, as he slides his dampened fingers inside of you. You part your legs instinctively, mouth open as you groan. He massages your velveteen walls, enjoying the way you roll your hips to try and bury the two fingers further inside of you. He pulls his hand back, twirling your clit with his thumb, before he slides back in enjoying the wet squelch of your juices against his fingers.

“That wet already?” He sucks his teeth, feigning surprise. He knew what he did to you, and just how to get you worked up. “I’ll make you cum, and then I’ll fuck you so good you won’t even remember your day. Deal?” His voice is like liquid pleasure and it shoots straight to your brain. Your clit twitches against his thumb and all you can make out is a quick nod. “Good.” He speeds up his wrist flicks, and changes his angle so that he each time his fingers disappear inside you, the palm of his hand kisses your clit. You’re a mess, moaning and turning into jelly right in front of you. “Why don’t you cum for me sugar. Cream all over my fingers.” He husks, curling said fingers against your g spot and making you see stars. You tumble over the edge into ecstasy, panting and shaking while your husband praises you softly, tells you how he loves how you cum with that pretty pussy of yours, how sexy your o face is, how he can’t wait to bury himself inside and fuck you dumb.

Katsuki always licks his fingers after he’s helped you ride out your orgasm. He sucks each digit into his mouth, staring you directly in the face with that cocky look in his lust darker irises. When he turns your head in his cum and saliva slick fingers, and presses his lips to yours in a bruising kiss, you shudder, able to taste your own cum in his mouth.

The blond normally likes to tease. Likes to have you at your breaking point before he gives in and fucks you so deeply tears spring into your eyes.

But tonight, he doesn’t. He turns you so he can be the big spoon, pushes his orange boxers down just enough to get his erecting free and slides into you, groaning at how your walls are already fluttering around him as he slowly buries himself to the hilt.

“Oh fuck...” you groan, which puts a cocky smirk on his face. Katsuki takes his time. He’s not fucking tonight, he’s making love to you. Making you feel loose and well loved and appreciated. He presses his lips to the shell or your ear to whisper just how tight you feel, and how good it all is, and how no one else gets him this hard and horny but you and your amazing body and mind god he loves how sharp you are. It had been your quick wit that had drawn him in. He rolls his hips, dragging his cock against your walls in a way that makes you twist free hands in the plush sheets beneath you.

Katsuki is a lot of things, but patient isn’t one of them. You’re more than aware of that, though, and when you feel him start to tremble from holding back, you quietly beg him to take you rough and quick, the way he’s dying to. The sounds of damp skin slapping fill the room. You’re moaning and groaning and keening for him, and that just sets him off more. He’s curses up a storm, and pulling you by the hips into him so hard you’re sure you’ll have bruises to match the hickies he’s sucking into the copper skin of your neck.

“Fuck, babe I’m close. Where do you...Shit...where do you want it?” He asks breathlessly, voice raising so you can hear him over your own sounds of pleasure.

“Inside Suki. Cum inside me. Fucking cum inside, please.” You plead between deep suckles of air. Katsuki nods against your neck, mumbling that he’d do anything you ask, anything for you. He slips his hands between your legs and thumbs your clit, quickly sending you into your second orgasm of the night. The way you tighten around him has Katsuki following not long after, hips jerking wildly, only to stop and stutter, as he pumps you full of his cum. He lets out a breathy shudder, sliding his slowly softening dick in and out of you with a very satisfied groan.

Your head spins. There are goosebumps and bruises and hickies dotting your skin now. Katsuki presses his lips to each dark mark in a silent apology as he pulls out with a hiss.

He was right. You don’t remember much of your day anymore. All you can focus on is the familiar ache between your thighs and the way cum slowly drools from inside you, dribbling down your legs.

Katsuki takes care of you, silently. He gets a damp rag from the adjourning bathroom, and delicately wipes you down. Your eyes meet, and he looks like he’s considering something. You tilt your head in a silent question.

“I don’t like telling you what to do.” He hums, looking up at you through foggy eyes. “You should quit. Take some time to just lounge around. I’m sure we can find you a less shit job.” You smile fondly down at him.

“Actually I’m determined to make them regret treating me like shit.” Your determined look makes Katsuki smirk. He pats your thigh, a loving glint in his eyes. “Be the best employee they’ve ever had, so when I quit, they beg me to stay. Make them wish they’d never been rude to me.”

“That’s my fuckin girl.”

Requests are open! Shoot me an ask~

Divders are from @/firefly-graphics

[pressedinthepages]

Love

Fandom: The Witcher

Pairing: Ciri & Eskel (Platonic/Familial), Geralt/Eskel, Lambert/Aiden

Rating: T

Masterlist

a/n: No request this time, just wanted to write something soft.

thanks to @sometimesiwrite​ for being a great beta/idea machine/friend :)

(There is a link on my page where you can be added to my taglist :D)

Warnings: language, softer than a freshly washed puppy, ~yearning~

Ciri asks about love.

    “Hey, Uncle Eskel?”

    Ciri’s voice, smooth and level with her age, rings over the ramparts from which Eskel currently hangs. Vesemir has given them all a chore for the afternoon, and Eskel is finishing closing a gaping maw in the structure of the inner wall of the keep. He is just barely perched on a scaffold, reaching to place the last stone in a spot that’s *just* outside of his reach. 

    Eskel turns to look down at Ciri, her ashen hair shining bright in the waning sun. He huffs as the breeze catches his dark hair and flops it down into his eyes. Ciri giggles, a sweet sound that she has yet to grow out of. Gods, I hope she never does, Eskel thinks.

    “Yes, Swallow?” Eskel is pretty proud that of all the dumb things Lambert and Geralt tried to nickname Ciri, his was the one that stuck. 

    Ciri crosses her arms over her chest, looking all the world like Geralt whenever he has his mind set on something that is almost certainly an inconvenience for Eskel. “After supper, I would appreciate your insight on some personal matters.” Ciri winks, her proper tone eclipsed by a chuckle just under her breath. 

    Eskel grins a bit, thinking back on their previous discussions. She’s grown up quite a bit, still on the earlier side of twenty, but her mind is sharp as a blade, and her tongue even sharper. “Of course, it would be an honor.” Eskel bows where he hangs, making his position even more precarious. He hears the quick intake of breath from Ciri and sits back up, smiling wide even as his scar pulls at his lip.

    “Don’t worry, little one,” Eskel says, switching the stone to his other hand before leaning back to the hole. “You’ll not get rid of me that easily.”

    Shortly after, Eskel and Ciri get to the supper table just as Lambert is serving. He’s on cooking duty all week, which works out well for everyone. He’s got the most agreeable palette, and he uses it well. However, next in the rotation is Geralt. He has the most sensitive nose out of all of them so he doesn’t season, and can’t cook a bird for shit. Eskel plans on appreciating his younger brother’s cooking as much as he can before the next week of bland meat and undercooked bread. 

    “Eat up, fuckers.” Lambert sets a large dish on the table, a hearty roast full of venison and root vegetables that had been stored away before the frost set in. A layer of lightly spiced shortcrust covers the top, and is served alongside tankards of ale and a hunk of dark bread. 

    “Smells delicious, Lambert,” Ciri calls after his retreating form. Eskel sees how the tips of his ears blush as he pours some of his “vodka�� (which is really just shitty leftover potion water) into his tankard, but Eskel only smiles down into his plate. Vesemir joins them too, and the four of them tuck into the generous offering.

    Their peace is short-lived though, cut off by the abrupt clang of the great doors flying open. Geralt stomps into the common area where they all sit, and Eskel wrinkles his nose. Geralt is soaked head to toe, and he smells like a mix between a decaying fish and a little bit of vomit after too much spicy food. 

    Lambert clearly picks up on it too, offering Geralt a sip of his drink. “Drowner duty?”

    Geralt grunts as he sits across from Ciri, bumping Eskel’s shoulder as he helps himself to the dinner. Geralt moans a bit as he takes the first bite, and Eskel shudders at the sound. He’s always been weak for Geralt’s voice, especially with how rarely he actually uses it. 

    They eat quickly now, forced to scarf it down in an effort to escape the devastating scent that Geralt brought to the table.  Eskel drains the last of his ale and grabs an apple, slicing it in half and handing some to Ciri. She whips out her own dagger and cuts away the core before portioning it neatly into several smaller mouthfuls. 

    Geralt sighs before pushing himself to stand, a whole new waft of nauseating aroma settling with the sudden movement. “I’m going to wash.”

    “Thank Melitele’s sweet tits, I thought you were just gonna make that part of your ~look~ now, pretty boy.” Lambert leans back with his boots kicked up on the table, carving a crude drawing into a pear from the table. Geralt walks quietly away from the table before turning abruptly and swinging his leg wide, catching Lambert’s chair and yanking it out from under him. He flails wildly before his ass hits the ground and he turns to grab at Geralt’s ankle. But he has already torn off towards the baths, and Lambert huffs before scrabbling to his feet and chasing after him, his pear long forgotten.

    Vesemir sighs in the now much quieter room, also standing and picking up his plate. “Well done on that wall today Eskel. Looks much better.”

    “Thanks, wasn’t anything too difficult.”

    “Maybe so, but I still appreciate it.” Eskel smiles as Vesemir walks away, letting himself revel in the praise for a moment. 

    Ciri clears her throat, bringing Eskel back to the matter at hand. “Library?” She asks, and Eskel nods. He takes Ciri’s plate and sets them into the washbasin for a later time. They trek up the stairs and push open the heavy wooden door. Eskel lights the fire with a flick of his fingers and the room instantly warms, the air light and swirling around them. 

    Eskel watches as Ciri plops down onto the dense fur in front of the fire, warming her hands as the orange light dances over her face. He walks over to his trusty copy of the Beastiary, only to pick it up and find it much lighter than he would expect. He opens it, and instead of his glass bottle of White Gull, there is a note in the hollowed-out hole. 

    ‘Maybe pick a less obvious hiding place, douche-canoe.’

    The handwriting is scrappy and small, just like the younger witcher that wrote it. Eskel sighs before turning to another bookcase, finding a heavy tome that Jaskier had left for him a few years prior. He flips this one open and finds two small flasks of Toussaint wine, which is certainly better than nothing. 

    Eskel walks silently over to Ciri and hands her one of the glasses before sprawling out beside her. They sit in silence for a while, as has become tradition while Ciri gathers her thoughts. They both sip at the wine, and Eskel needs to remember to write a letter to Jaskier at Oxenfurt for saving his ass tonight. 

    “I have to warn you Eskel,” Ciri murmurs, and Eskel looks over to her with a crook of his brow. “This isn’t going to be an easy one.”

    Eskel hums, taking another sip of wine. “Never is, kid.”

    Ciri takes in a deep breath, steeling herself with a long chug of the alcohol in her grasp. “How do you know if you’re in love with someone?”

    Eskel’s eyes widen imperceptibly, and he can feel how his heart skips a beat. “Damn Ciri,” he chuckles, “you weren’t kidding when you said this wouldn’t be easy.”

    Ciri only shrugs with a smirk. Eskel shifts a bit, partially to get himself more comfortable, and partially to give himself more time to think. He can only wiggle around for so long before it gets weird for everyone though, so he just ends up tucking his legs underneath him and taking another long drink of wine. 

    “Well, I-”

    “Have you ever been in love, Eskel?” Ciri turns to him, her bright gaze shocking on even the best days. Now they bore straight through Eskel, and he feels like she is peeling away the layers of mortar he has so carefully laid around his heart for the past, oh, century or so. Eskel thinks back, trying to remember the moment that he knew what love was. 

    And then he tries to figure out how to tell Ciri that he knows what love is like because of her father. Geralt showed him what it was like to feel out of breath whenever they were more than a hairs’ breadth apart. And then the all-encompassing relief that sang through his bones whenever they reunited. They showed each other how to accept this part of their lives that had been so desperately ignored, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world. 

    But that’s a lot. Geralt is terrible with words and feelings, and Eskel is not much better. Ciri looks at him expectantly, with all of the air of royalty running low on patience. Ciri is eternally patient though, especially with all of the practice she has had with Geralt. 

    Eskel is just about to open his mouth when he hears stomping down the hallway, and he waits until Lambert pushes open the old door with enough force to send the snow into an avalanche over the mountains. He, now, is soaking wet, though instead of drowner guts he only smells of the clean mineral water that flows into the springs beneath the keep. Eskel smirks up at him as he traipses over to where the two of them sit, dropping himself unceremoniously into one of the soft chairs that rests not far from the fire. “Geralt throw you in?”

    Lambert hums in the affirmative, seemingly harboring no further ill-will towards him. “What are you two chucklefucks talking about?”

    Ciri pipes up, seemingly (for whatever reason) interested in Lambert’s opinion. “I asked Eskel what it feels like to be in love.”

    Lambert’s face looks as though he was just violently slapped with a fish, glancing over to Eskel who only offers a shrug in return. Eskel is expecting a long-winded rant about how ‘Witchers don’t love, it makes you soft, and a soft Witcher is a dead Witcher…’ blah blah blah, but that’s not what he gets. Instead, Lambert kind of sinks further into his seat and his eyes turn tender, and Eskel realizes that he’s getting a glimpse into the Lambert that the world so rarely sees.

    “Wanna know what I think about love, little beetle butt?”

    Ciri nods, turning more fully towards Lambert. Eskel does the same, curious to see what his youngest brother has to say. Eskel holds out his half-empty flask, handing it to Lambert in a silent offer of support. Lambert drains the remainder of the wine in one gulp, the bastard, before he smiles a bit as he loses himself in his thoughts. 

    “I think that love is-” Lambert sighs, searching for the right words, “love is indescribable. You don’t know what it is until you have it, and then you never want to let it go.” 

    Eskel nods at Lambert’s words, letting them resonate in his mind. He never quite feels right anymore without Geralt at his side, his body and soul yearning for their other half in a way that cannot be depicted with mere words. 

    “Ciri, I haven’t got a clue about whatever you’ve got going on,” Lambert wags his finger in the air, and Eskel can see just how influenced the youngest of them was by Vesemir. “But life, especially human life, is too short to dwell on shit that will fester and bubble under your skin if you don’t let it out.”

    “But how do I know?” Ciri whispers, and Eskel’s heart breaks for her. Gods, he has spent decades asking himself that exact same question, and he still doesn’t really have an answer.

    “You’ll know when it’s not a question anymore.” Lambert stares off into the fire, watching the flames lick up into the air, chasing the wayward embers into the dark of the ceiling. Eskel is kind of stuck, Lambert’s words ringing through his head. When it’s not a question anymore. Fuck, when did the little prick actually get smart?

    Ciri rolls over, pressing a gentle kiss to Eskel’s cheek, right over the angriest of his scars. “Thank you, Uncle Eskel. And you, Uncle Lambert,” she gives him a kiss on the cheek as well, and leaves them alone to their thoughts. 

    Eskel looks over at Lambert, seeing in bright relief the decades that have worn this man raw, and wonders just how he can still have room for love in his heart. “Who is it?”

    Lambert sighs, hanging his head a bit. “I met him on the Path. We’ve been...traveling together now for a couple of years. He’s uh-he’s the best man I’ve ever met.”

    Eskel smiles wide once more, scooching closer to where Lambert sits. “I’m happy for you, Wolf. Why haven’t you told us?”

    “He’s another Witcher, and a Cat no less.” Eskel blinks at this, but the way that Lambert looks at him, vulnerable and exposed, shuts up any errant thoughts he may have had. “Besides, like you have room to talk. You’ve been pining after Geralt for how long? A century? Two?”

    Eskel throws his shoe at Lambert, catching him on the shoulder. Fuck, I need to work on my aim. “Shut up. I’m working on it.”

    Lambert scoffs as he stands up, chucking Eskel’s boot back over his shoulder. “Right, well. Once you figure it out, let me know. By that point, I’ll be retired on the coast with a whorehouse next door. You’ll know where to find me.”

    Lambert is almost to the door when Eskel’s arms wrap around him, strong enough to bruise a rib if he wasn’t a Witcher. “Shit, Eskel! Let go of me, you great oaf!”

    Eskel gives one last squeeze before he relents, grabbing Lambert by the arm before he can take off running. “Thank you, Lambert, and I promise. I won’t tell anyone before you’re ready.”

    Lambert glances down to the ground with a great breath in, his golden eyes catching Eskel’s when they return. “Thanks, brother.”

    “Of course, Wolf.”

[anti-the-glitch-bitch]

Into the Void

*This is my Dark/Anti horror story. There is no shipping of them or any Septiplier. There is such themes as blood, gore, torture, abuse and other things. If that’s not your thing then please move along. If it is your thing then I hope you enjoy. Please leave a comment on what you thing of it. I love comments.*

Word count: 2,480

"Mark Fischbach! You get your ass down here right now!" I yell at the top of my lungs, slamming the front door open at the same time. Mark was supposed to pick me up at the airport an hour ago, but he never showed up. I'm sure he probably got caught up in recording a video for his channel. I had texted and called him multiple times, but I never got a reply back. At times, being a Youtuber's friend can be frustrating. With a sigh, I turned to go back outside and start the arduous task of bringing my bags in. Before I can put even a foot out the door, I hear a loud thunk from upstairs and then barking.

A door slowly opens, and the barking gets significantly louder. I chuckle as a fluffy golden retriever runs down the stairs, straight at me, tail wagging a mile a minute.

"CHICA! How is the beautiful fluffy puppers?" I coo as I kneel down, so I can give her all the love she deserves. This is my first time ever meeting her, but Mark was always sending me pics and videos of her. So I'm pretty excited to get to love on her.

"Sorry, Bri. I..um..lost track of time." Mark's guilty voice comes from the stairs.

I look up and glare at him as he walks over to me. He scratches the back of his head as he gives me a sheepish grin. "You're lucky that Chica is sooo adorable. Otherwise, you would be in so much trouble! All you had to do was say you got held up. I would have understood, you ass!" I huff at him and go to grab my bags.

"So, are you saying I'm not adorable?" he gives me a fake pout as he throws his arm around my shoulder." Not when you leave me hanging at the airport with not even a call." I laugh as I hip bump him, causing him to stumble. I never could stay mad at him for long. His antics made me laugh too much for that.

"Well, since I'm off to such a bad start as a host. I'll get your bags." He grabs my two suitcases while I grab the smaller duffel bag.

Mark and I have been best friends since we were kids. We were neighbors when he lived in Ohio and became inseparable. We stayed super close until he moved to LA, and I stayed in Ohio. We texted and video chatted all the time, but it was never the same as being in person. When my boyfriend of 3 years broke up with me, I was absolutely devastated.

We were a month away from getting married. I had come home from a work meeting and realized all his stuff was gone. No note. Nothing. I locked myself in my apartment for over a week, just lay in bed. I didn't eat. I barely slept. I cut contact with everyone. I was numb to everything, and I did nothing to stop myself from spiraling faster and faster down into the abyss of nothingness.

I guess Mark and his girlfriend, Amy, got worried because the next thing I know, Mark is banging on my door early one morning, hollering at me to open my damn door. I'm not sure who was more shocked. Me, at their sudden appearance or them, at my disastrous looks.

Two hours later, and I've had my first shower and meal in who knows how long. They sat with me and let me cry on their shoulder for as long as I needed. Well, Amy did. Mark just sat on the couch, looking super uncomfortable and trying super hard to cheer me up. After awhile, Mark's joking nature started to cheer me up, and Amy joined in, talking about all the antics their friends had gotten up to. It was almost midnight when I finally had them convinced that I was feeling tons better. Before they left, Amy had managed to get a promise out of me that I would come to LA and stay for an undefined amount of time.

I was hoping I could get away with only a few days, but Amy wouldn't hear anything of it and told me to pack for at least two weeks. Guess I really worried them if they wanted to keep me for that long. That was the reason why one short month later, I was hauling my things into their house.

I follow Mark upstairs to the guest bedroom and throw my bag on the bed. Next thing I know, Mark has me in a giant hug. I tense at first but quickly relax into it. "I'm so glad you came, Bri. I've been worried about you. I was afraid you might bail on me last minute." His voice is thick with emotions as he puts his chin on my head.

I shrug as I fight not to cry. "I thought about it a million times, but in the, end I knew it would do me some good. Plus, I just plain missed you. Your videos just don't do the real you justice." I pull myself out of the hug and look around as I realize someone is missing. "Where is Amy at? I thought she was gonna be here."

"Oh, she went on a girl's trip with Sean's girlfriend. They wanted some time to bond over girl things. They didn't say how long they would be gone, but I'm sure they'll be back before you leave." He gives me a mischievous grin. "That means you’re stuck with me for who knows how long."

I start laughing like a maniac as I think of all the pranks I can pull on Mark without retribution from both of them. "OH no. That means you'll be stuck with ME. Now, what's a girl gotta do to get some food around this joint?" I rub my hands together and lick my lips as I think about eating real food.

He grumbles jokingly about not signing up to be my personal chef as he makes his way to the kitchen. I'm just about to follow when I notice a weird, flickering shadow flit across the doorframe. I look around the room to see what might have caused it but don't see anything.

I must be really tired, I think as I shake my head and continue on my way to the kitchen.

"Here's the thing. I've been so busy trying to get videos done, so I can spend time with you, that I forgot to make a trip to the store. I've got stuff to make sandwiches, or we can order out?" He is definitely not guilty as he tells me this. I'm pretty sure he is using me as an excuse to get fast food by the smile on his face.

"Damn, Mark. You act like I showed up out of the blue instead of planning this visit for a month. Sandwiches will be just fine with me." I laugh as I push past him towards the fridge. Mark is helping me get all the stuff together when there is a knock at the door. Chica instantly starts barking and makes a beeline for the door. Mark looks at me very quickly with a super not guilty look. The look on his face has me instantly on guard.

"Bri, please don't be mad, but I might have told Sean that you are gonna be staying with me and that you are a huge fan of his. I talk about you all the time to him, and he wanted to meet you. His girlfriend is on that trip with Amy so he is also gonna be staying here for a bit." That shithead was dead. His fans are going to be so pissed cause I am about to murder this man.

I don't know how my body did it, but it felt like all the blood in my face went straight to my cheeks. I'm a very shy person when it comes to anyone that might even be remotely famous. My anxiety goes into overdrive, especially since I might have a small celebrity crush on the Youtuber known as Jacksepticeye.

"YOU FUCKING DID WHAT?!" I'm sure if my voice was an octave higher, I could have shattered glass. Mark is laughing his ass off at my reaction and starts walking towards the door. "DON'T YOU DARE OPEN THAT FUCKING DOOR!" I shriek in absolute panic.

That asshat is laughing so hard at this point that he has to lean against the wall to steady himself. Sean is apparently tired of waiting for Mark and decides to let himself in. "OI! Ya gobshyte going ta let me stand outside all day?" Sean makes eye contact with me as he says this before an unopened loaf of bread hits him directly in the face.

In my panic, my fight instincts kicked in, and I threw the 1st thing my hands came across. Luckily for Sean, it just happened to be bread. Then my flight instincts kick in. I give a horrified shriek, and I hightail it into my room with Mark's laughter following me the entire way. I close the door shut and rip the blanket off the bed. I then proceed to go to the closet, open the door, wrap the blanket around me and hide in the closet with the door shut.

I will become one with the Darkness if it's the last thing I do.

I'm only in the closet for about 10 minutes before Mark finds me. I'm no longer freaking out, but now the embarrassment is kicking into overdrive. "I live in this closet now. I can never leave. It is my home." I groan into the blanket.

"That was the funniest shit I've ever seen. My only regret is that I wasn't recording it." He chuckles as he pulls the blanket off my head. "You planning on hiding in here forever? I mean, it wasn't as bad as the time you met Daniel Cudmore." I groan even harder before I look up at him. " The difference between then and now is that Daniel didn't get A FACE FULL OF BREAD! This is the most embarrassing thing ever. I can never face him now. I hate you so much right now. This entire thing is your fault." I can only facepalm as my cheeks start heating up again. Mark chuckles as he shakes his head.

He briefly glances at the doorway and then back at me. He flops onto the floor just outside the closet door. "Sean thought it was funny...Well, once he got over the shock, that is. Come onnnnn. He came all this way from England just to meet one of my best friends. He can't do that if you hide away in here. He's just a regular dude that also happens to be a Youtuber. You'll never get over that weird celebrity shyness you have if you don't talk to him." he starts trying to yank the blanket off me.

"Ugh. Why do you have to bring logic into this? I can't help it if my stupid brain has to spazz out. Give me a few minutes to gather my courage. If I'm not downstairs in 15 minutes, then you can come get me like the barbarian you are." I laugh and try to yank the blanket back.

"You are such a chicken shit, I swear." He smiles and stands up. Before I can do anything else, he yanks the blanket super hard. It jerks me partially out of the closet, and I fall out, laying on my side. There is a familiar laugh close to the bedroom door that is neither mine nor Mark's. I immediately tense up and look at the doorway. Those blue eyes are the first thing I see. I overlook many other details except that cute Irish boi smile. Then I realize that Sean is standing in the doorway. Looking at me. I dive back into the closet while simultaneously yanking the blanket back in with me. I slam the closet door shut, and not even a second later, Sean and Mark are laughing hysterically.

Yuck it up, you assholes. I don't respond as I am now busy trying to make the floor more comfortable with the blanket. "You have to come out eventually, Bri. You can't stay in there all day." His voice gets farther away as he talks.

" I just need some time! Go play some video games or whatever shit you guys do together! I yell back at him.

There was no way in hell I was ever leaving this closet while Sean was here. I guess it's a good thing my phone is fully charged cause I'm going to need something to do in here. I get on YouTube and start watching my Darkiplier/Antisepticeye playlist.

I love Mark like a brother and would never be able to think of him any other way, but when he made that first video going full Darkiplier….I wasn't able to FaceTime him for two weeks because I would instantly think of Dark and start blushing. The first time I saw Anti's full appearance I completely fangirled. I must have watched the video on repeat a million times. What can I say? I love my bad boys.

I'm not sure how long I stay in the closet watching the videos but I feel myself start to get tired. I'm fighting sleep and losing badly. I'm just about to conk out when I feel a hand gently caress my cheek.

"You'll do just fine." a voice whispers to me as I fall unconscious.

[whenitcounts33]

last name (1)

Summary: When Alice and Bella dragged Rose to Vegas to celebrate graduation, Rose never imagined anything actually happening like in the movies. Then she wakes up the morning before they leave, married to the very good looking man from the bar. 

Rose bit her lip, cringing when the plane's wheels touched down on the tarmac and sent up a thank-you to whatever God was listening. Flying was the worst way to travel in her book and she hoped she could talk Alice and Bella into letting her drive back to Seattle. She knew it wasn't likely, but a girl could dream. 

Alice turned around in her seat to grin at Rose, earning a grimace from her best friend. Bella, sitting next to Rose, rolled her eyes and elbowed the blonde playfully. "It wasn't that bad, Ro," she said with a smile. 

Rose glowered and held out her hand to show Bella the half-moon marks her nails left in her palms. "Over-dramatic," Bella said helpfully, making Rose snort. She was right, of course, but Rose wouldn't admit it. 

"Maybe," she allowed, standing up when prompted and stretching her arms above her head. "I'm just glad Bella's bad luck didn't strike the plane down." Bella glared at her, and at Alice when she laughed, muttering "har har" under her breath.

They made their way off the plane and to the luggage claim, Alice chattering a mile a minute about their plans. "Check-in at the hotel is at 11:30 and we have reservations for dinner at 6," she paused for breath, cheeks pink with excitement. "Tomorrow we have a date with the strip and sight-seeing. Dinner at 6 again." 

Rose gave a non-committal hum, grabbing her bag when she saw it. Alice and Bella grabbed theirs and Alice grabbed onto both of them, towing them along towards the automatic doors of the exit. 

The awfully hot air of the dessert hit her in the face like a brick and Rose immediately started to sweat. "Why did we have to come here again?" She demanded as they waited for the large family ahead of them to get into the minivan taxi waiting at the curb. 

Alice gave her a glare that would have sent a weaker person running but Rose was used to her and just glared back. "You are going to have fun Rosalie Hale, or so help me," she warned, a small finger poking into Rose's chest. "We are finally finished with school and we are going to celebrate!" 

Rose fought back a small smile, and nodded for Alice's benefit. "Yeah, yeah," she muttered, brushing Alice away with a flick of her wrist. 

Bella watched them with a small smile, amused by their antics and knowing nothing Rose said or did would change the plans. Alice was a force to be reckoned with and Bella, and Rose, knew to just lay back and let Hurricane Alice go down it's path. Though that never stopped Rose from teasing her best friend when she got a tad bit out of control and or enthusiastic. 

The hotel was a block away from the strip and two nightclubs, huge and intimidating with the bright lights and people streaming in and out. Rose welcomed the AC with a sigh of relief, letting the cold air raise goosebumps on her arms and shoulders. She fluffed out her hair, wincing at the sweat wetting it and the back of her neck. "Couldn't have picked out a cooler climate, Al?" She asked, already knowing the answer. "Like maybe the Antarctic?" 

Alice ignored her, stomping towards the front desk, mumbling under her breath about ungrateful friends and how they are traitors that don't know how to have a good time. 

The lobby was huge, with shops and restaurants and big flat screen TVs with couches and armchairs everywhere. Rose thought it was too much, but what did she know of interior design? 

Bella was watching her, a crease over her brown eyes and a frown on her lips. It was a look she got every time Rose and Alice butted heads. Or when her boyfriend, Edward, was being melodramatic and over the top. Which was all the time. 

"Just try to have fun," Bella told her, tugging on a lock of Rose's hair with a smile. "Alice really wants to do this and it won't hurt to have a small vacation, just us girls." Rose sighed, knowing Bella was right, and nodded. "I'll try," she promised, letting Bella tug her towards the front desk where Alice was. 

It's not that she didn't want to have a girls-vacation, Rose was just really excited, and anxious, to start her new job. She fought so hard for this, to show the men that she deserved a spot in the "boys club" of mechanics. She wanted to show them that she could be just as good, better even, than all of them combined. 

The room, a suite really, was quite nice. Bigger than her whole apartment, and better furnished. She dropped onto the large bed with a sigh and spread out her arms and legs so she took up the whole mattress. It felt heavenly against her body and the sheets smelled like lavender. She could hear Bella and Alice walking around, oohing and aww-ing at everything. 

She sat up after a moment, blinking to wake herself back up. They could see the strip from the balcony, the light and signs dazzling and hard to miss. She missed Seattle, with it's muted colors and smaller buildings. She missed her small apartment and the diner two blocks away with the amazing coffee and omelets. 

"Get a grip, Rose," she muttered under her breath, shaking her head. No need to feel home-sick, she'd be back home in four-days, all snuggled up in her own bed. She watched Bella look at herself in the mirror in the bathroom, pursing her lips and shaking out her hair. Alice was somewhere in the living room, stuffing luggage under the coffee table. 

"We can stay in the hotel for now, then leave at 5:20 to get to the restaurant." Alice was saying, now in the bathroom and putting all their toiletries in a neat little line for later use. "I wanna see the little boutique they have in the lobby," Bella interjected, sitting on the bed next to Rose. "It was cute," Rose agreed, shrugging. She wouldn't buy anything though, knowing stores in hotels always over charged everything and Rose did not want this trip to put a considerable gap in her bank account. 

Her father made good money as a banker, but they were a middle-class family, not rich by any means but far from poor. Her mom came from nothing though and instilled it in her daughter to always make sure she had enough money to live off of in her accounts, no matter what happened. She raised Rose to appreciate every check and every coin. Rose lived by that rule and tried to never spend money on anything that she didn't truly need. Alice, who came from old money and never had to worry, always laughed when she heard that, but Bella, who was raised on a one-parent income, understood better than any of their other friends. 

"Boutique it is," Alice said, standing in front of them like a little tyrant, hands on her hips and a determined tilt to her head. 

On the third day Rose openly admitted that the trip had been a good idea and that Alice was right. Alice had made Rose repeat it all with her phone trained on her face as she was recorded. "For the next time we argue and you say I'm never right," is what Alice had said to justify it. Rose, tipsy and easily agreeable, had laughed and hugged Alice, thanking her for forcing her to Vegas. 

They were at a nightclub a few blocks from the hotel, hips swaying to the music and alcohol running through their veins. Rose felt warm, like someone had lit a match and set her blood on fire. It was a good warmth, one that started in her chest and went through her arms to her fingertips, down her chest and into her legs. Her head felt fuzzy and everything was bright and loud, calling to her like a siren song to keep on dancing and drinking. 

She could feel someone watching her, the hair on the back of her neck standing up and the skin erupting in goosebumps. Her adrenaline spiked, unbidden memories bubbling up to the surface and she turned slowly, nails digging into her skin hard enough to hurt.

There were so many people in the club that it took her a minute to see who her watcher was. She finally found him, standing at the bar, tall and built like a line-backer, all hard muscle with a handsome face. The fact that he was so handsome did not quell her fear, it made it worse because pretty boys knew they could get away with more. It made them cruel. 

The guy flushed, fair cheeks turning pink, when his eyes met hers and he realized he'd been caught staring. Rose watches him look away, biting his lower lip. His dark curls are sweaty, flopping down onto his forehead and sticking to the back of his neck. It makes her feel safer when he doesn't try to come over to her or stare at her again. She tells herself that he had just been spaced-out, merely looking in her direction, not at her. Lord knows she's done that plenty of times. 

She tells herself later that it was the alcohol, not him being not creepy, that moves her feet over to him. Through the throng of people, away from the safety of her friends who don't notice her leave, and towards the giant of a man. 

The smell of alcohol is stronger there, sharp and bitter and mixing with the salty tang of sweat, and her nose wrinkles against it. The guy turns his head to look at her when he notices a new person. His eyes are brown, reminding her of the forest surrounding Washington, and he has a very nice smile. Her heart flutters in response and she gives him a small smile back. 

"I'm Emmett and I am sorry for being a creep and staring at you. My Ma taught me better," he says, voice smooth like honey and deep. He has a Southern twang that makes his words rise and fall in weird places, but Rose likes it. "If you wanna hit me, that's perfectly fine ma'am, I can take it," he adds before Rose can say anything. He stands up straight, arms at his side like a soldier. He's so tall he's half a head over her five-foot-eight and she feels small near him, which she likes more than she thought she would. 

Rose let out a snort and he looked down at her so quickly he must have gotten whiplash. "I'm Rose and I won't hit you, my mom taught me better than that," she says, voice equals parts playful and haughty. 

He gives her a slow grin and her stomach flips itself at the same time her heart skyrockets. So pretty her mind whispered, noting how the smile makes his eyes crinkle and how the left side of his mouth rises higher than the right. 

"Well Rose," he says, and she tries to ignores the way his mouth wraps around her name, how pretty it sounds in that Southern twang. "Looks like I'll have to make it up to you in some other way." 

The way he says it is dangerous, like some dark promise he's bound to keep. But Rose isn't afraid. Not of Emmett, who thinks highly of his mom, who smiles with his whole being and blushes when he looks her right in the eye. 

So Rose smiles, and stands up to her full height so she can better look him in the eye. "Looks like it," she murmurs, and commits the happy gleam in his eyes to memory. 

[okaybutlikeimagine]

Hello. Thoughts on Dads!Harringrove??? the boys like in their mid 40s with 3 kids. what type of parents do you think they’ll be??? will their grandpa jim spoil them??? i love harringrove parents w all my heart. they both deserve a big happy family of their own 🥰

Hello, my thoughts are it’s the cutest damn thing ever and i could cry just thinking about it aUGH HARRINGROVE DADS.

Okay, so i’ve read quite a few things talking about the Harringrove Dads and adopting little babies, adopting sweet little girls, etc. and i absolutely live and die for that shit. Like i’m so serious, i think it’s so sweet, it warms my heart, i eat it up, i LOVE it

But also (and i’m sure i’m not the first to say it) I feel like they’re NOT the type to go adopting babies. They’re not getting a surrogate to raise a kid from infancy. They may want to, they may have that inkling, they may see Jonathan and Nancy having a baby and get that infamous Baby Fever, but I just… I really can’t bring myself to write that.

Bc (in my canon) Billy was adopted as a 17 year old delinquent. El was adopted as a 12 year old lab rat. Steve was basically abandoned at home when he got too old to be the “cute little boy” their parents could tote around to promote their Nuclear Family image. They’re two boys who were made very keenly aware that there are shitty people out there who believe kids get less desirable the older they get. Shitty people who think babies are worth more than older kids who probably just come with “problems”.

(i’ve also been rewatching Boy Meets World and GUYS. i see a lot of Billy in Shawn Hunter. Boy who’s taken in bc he’s been neglected and he’s a sensitive kid underneath but he’s got this hard, bad boy shell bc it’s easier than crying every day)(AUGH and just like Will in Fresh Prince goddamnit i fucking LIVE for those kids who think and act all tough and use their pretty looks like a weapon but all they really need is a caring and stern hand who’s gonna keep them on the straight and narrow and help them out along the way i am SOFT.)

So if these boys have 3 kids, it’s 3 kids who were seen as the “worst” of the bunch. 3 kids they fought to connect with bc these kids didn’t see anything in themselves anymore but goddamnit, Steve and Billy saw 3 kids beat and broken by the system that told them the older they got, the smaller their chances were of ever getting out of this place. They came with problems and fears and shells harder than Billy’s steel toed boots but like hell were Billy and Steve going to let these kids go the rest of their lives thinking they were damaged goods.

(god now i wanna write OCs of their children. look what you did to me!)

Okay so their parenting style changes as they grow and adopt more kids, as what happens with most parents. They learn what’s good and what’s not so good and they get better at fixing problems (but of course it’s never quite that easy bc they’re adopting kids of different ages).

And of course i’m saying they adopt the kids everyone has turned away, but for their first kid they adopt a little boy, about 5 years old, bc they gotta start small. He’s very cute and has a bit of a lisp and he mixes up some of his letters and he’s… energetic. He runs and he screams and he tires himself out real quick to the point where he just flops down and takes naps where he is, meaning there has been more than one occasion where Billy or Steve has found the child sleeping face first in the middle of a room (the entry room seems to be his favorite. Billy doesn’t blame him, the carpet is softer there than anywhere else.) One time he even flopped down on the middle of the sidewalk and again in the middle of a department store. Both times Billy scooped him up like a rag doll and carried him around the rest of their trip out.

And i know it’s not the BEST movie but i can’t help but think their parenting at the beginning would be a bit like the movie Big Daddy. Like, a lot of well-intentioned but misguided advice, a lot of “real world” lessons (like how to piss on the side of the road), a lot of hurried and frazzled solutions to things because “kids are messy why are kids so fucking messy why can’t he ever stay clean?”

“He’s just a kid, Steve, c’mon-”

“He’s always sticky! How! How is he always sticky? What’s making him so sticky!”

And I just!! Augh!! Imagine Steve at work all day and Billy has off/maybe he’s inbetween jobs right now so he can be home with the kid/whatever and so he has errands to run and takes their little kid with him and the kid’s like:

“What’s your real name?”

“You know that. It’s Billy.”

“…. why?”

And Billy shrugs with an “I dunno, cuz I couldn’t talk and my parents could and they had to call me somethin.”

“You could’n talk?”

“Hey, you couldn’t either.”

The boy thinks for a second before: “Could too.”

“Could not. Not when you were a baby.” He pokes the boy in the shoulder, still very tentative with how much the little tike can take. “Don’t start attacking me! You didn’t name yourself.”

They walk for a second but Billy chimes in before the kid can.

“Hey, that’s not fair though, is it?”

The boy looks up and shakes his head, but he can see the confusion in his eyes.

“You should be able to name yourself, right? What do you want your name to be? Anything in the world, what do you want me to call you?”

Which is how Steve comes home to their child and Billy eating some baby carrots smothered in BBQ sauce and his husband telling him: “By the way, the kid’s new name is Hot Dog.”

“…. what?”

“He picked it out himself.”

And just imagine Billy and the kid are going grocery shopping and Billy catches the boy reaching for a can of spaghetti-o’s.

Billy reaches for the can and takes it off the shelf. “You like these?”

The kid nods.

“Alright then. Watch out-” he hold the kid back gently before chucking the can at the ground. He turns to his boy. “Dented cans are half off. Y’know, Microsoft dropped 3 points.”

His kid nods in awe.

“Wanna pick that up for me?” Billy asks and the kid follows, before rearing the can back to throw it on the ground.

“Woah woah woah! Watch it there!” Billy grabs the boy’s arm, before aiming it a different way. “Aim away from your feet… there ya go. I know they’re kinda tiny targets but still, don’t wanna give yourself a flat tire there.”

The kid chucks it and Billy laughs. “Nice job, little dude.”

And i just have so many THOUGHTS about this!!! Their second kid being a little 9 year old girl who’s real fucking good at boxing and fighting and also a little too good at sneaking out the window. They’ve caught her a few times in the backyard or the front yard, just sitting around shivering. It always gives Billy and Steve a heart attack.

“What are you doing out here?” Steve asks, kneeling down to look at the girl, Billy taking note of her hands balled up into little fists.

“I heard a… noise. A loud noise.”

“Oh, yeah, your brother just dropped a glass.”

“Oh. Did you… did you… hurt him?” Her fists clench tighter, her shoulders get tighter, closer to her ears. Billy sees himself in it. He wants to ease her shoulders down out of her ears.

“No! No of course we didn’t.” Steve soothes, rubbing the girls arms soothingly. She looks skeptical.

But it becomes a pattern, and they realize it’s whenever she thinks something is going on or someone is in danger. To the point where if any loud noise happens, one of them rushes outside to look for Jordan climbing out a window.

Steve’s out there this time, grabbing hold of her middle and helping her out of the window because they’ve let their plants grow a little wiley and she was having a hard time getting past them. He sets her down gently.

“It’s fine, hun. You’re fine. Your dad just dropped a pan.”

“Oh…”

“Y’know, you can’t keep doing this.”

“What?”

“Ditching out the window like this.” He kneels down to look at her. “It’s not safe. And one of these days it’s gonna be snowing and you’re gonna jump out in your PJs and be all cold.”

“I’ve done it before.”

And if that doesn’t break Steve’s heart. He thinks about Billy when he was a kid. About the stories Billy has told him when he’s tired and a little drunk and feeling a little emotional. Steve loses himself in the sadness of the thought for a second.

He brushes a little bit of dirt off her shoulder.

“Yeah… well you don’t have to ever again, alright? I mean it. Nothing is happening to you here. We’re not gonna hurt you… Now give me a hug.”

She accepts it, which is big for her, and Steve squeezes her as tight as he squeezed Billy that one night he found him with a cut on his cheek and bruises all up and down his arms.

And then they adopt another boy. A 17 year old boy. A boy who’s been in and out of so many homes he doesn’t have a number for it. A boy who’s angry and jaded and… loves poetry and is so gentle with children and animals.

And him and Billy butt heads… a lot. They’re so similar… at least he’s similar to what Billy used to be. And it pisses them both off bc suddenly Billy knows what Hop felt- frustration. Utter frustration at this boy not understanding his fucking potential.

And i’ve written a whole dialogue for this but it’s long and very dramatic and I might just end up writing a fic about all of these little sweethearts (bc i have so many ideas!!!) but basically the boy telling Billy and Steve that he’s fucked up. He’s fucked up and no one will ever be able to change that and Billy is adamant that he’s not until he admits-

“No. You’re right, you are fucked up.”

Steve is shocked. “Billy!”

“No, shut up Steve.” Billy points at the kid. “You are fucked up. You’re a fucked up kid, and you know what? I’m fucked up too. And so is Steve. And so is your aunt El, and your Aunt Max, and your Uncle Will and Uncle Jonathan. And y’know what else? Your grandpa Jim is fucked up too. Hell, even your Grandma Joyce is fucked up. Wish I could tell you she’s not but ding ding ding! She is!”

And they get in a fight. There’s no fists, no touching, but it’s a major fight of Billy telling this boy what Hop told him once: You’re our kid now and we love you. And you can leave and never think about us again but we’re never gonna forget you.

And: “Don’t you dare fucking compare us to those assholes because I’m not giving up on you. We’re not giving up on you. You’re family now and no matter what you do, I’m gonna be there to worry about you and be happy for you because you deserve it!”

And Billy gets frustrated with all of his yelling so he grabs his stress ball and walks away, breathing heavy, and Steve is there to look the boy in the eye and tell him Billy’s right. And that he understands that the boy has a past before they ever met him “but Billy had a life before he met me… and same with me and him, and we can still love each other. So maybe we’re just on an even playing field. We get to learn about you while you learn about us and… and even so, we can still love each other, right?”

AUGH I’M SOFT. ANYWAY.

Hop and Joyce spoil them fucking rotten. It’s really hard to spoil a 17 year old boy as stubborn as an ox (“You were bad enough, now you bring me another one?” “You saying you didn’t like taking care of me, Pops?” “I’m saying I have enough gray hair as it is.” “Oh shush, Hop!” Joyce hits him) but they do their best. They give him love and support. Joyce bakes a shitton of cookies and cakes and Hop buys the kids toys (and the older boy CDs and records and band tees)(“I’m trying! The older I get, the less I know what kids what.”)

And they love all their aunts and uncles too! The little girl has a hard time reading and she reads way below her level, so Aunt El helps her out!

“I understand. I learned to read really late.”

“Really?” The girl’s heart lifts a bit. “How late?”

“I was twelve.”

“Really??”

El nods and gives a kind smile. “Yeah, but I learned, didn’t I? I had a lot of help, and I can help you, too! Just like your dad helped me.”

The girl smiles brightly.

Will’s favorite is the youngest boy (but he would never tell the other two that. Of course not.) because he’s silly and he took to Will almost instantly and he likes to roll around in the grass and catch bugs and those were never really things Will liked as a kid and he… he likes that. He didn’t think he’d ever like that but there’s something about this kid that brings out adventure in him. He reminds Will of Mike when they first met. A bundle of energy and excitement that always dragged Will around on adventures.

The older one hangs out a lot with Max and Jonathan. Jonathan likes hanging out with the kid cuz he reminds him of Billy when Billy was young. (“I don’t remember you being this… exhausting though.” Jonathan tells Billy.) (“You’re just getting old, bud.” Billy says with a laugh and a clap on the back) They smoke weed whenever they can and Jonathan gives the boy some good old 70’s and 80’s music to listen to and tells the boy “Meatloaf is not the best of our decade, don’t listen to your father. Either of them, honestly. Their music taste is shit.”

Max hangs out with the older one too. She gives him advice about girls and how to talk to them and she picks up a skateboard for the first time in years because of him. They go to the skate park sometimes and everyone there is amazed that a twenty something year old girl is here to skate with them until she skates circles around them. (She becomes the hit of the skate park)

She also wrestles around with the little 8 year old girl sometimes! She has a lot of heart to hearts with the kid, giving her advice as well and telling her silly stories of both Billy and Steve so that the girl learns to trust them more.

And overall they’re a big, loving family!! And they’re slightly dysfunctional too and i just! Can’t see it happening any other way!! Bc they’re a little dysfunctional but they’re dysfunctional with LOVE and isn’t that what matters???? It’s a lot of work and a lot of sweat and a lot of tears but it’s their family and in the end their kids love them to death bc they realize their fathers love them to death and!!! Everyone’s heart is full and happy and i’m crying!

[bonniebird]

The Girl Next Door (Part Four)

Masterlist

Hvitserk x Reader

Thank you @honestsycrets​ for letting me borrow your marco gifs :D

“So are you going to tell me what went on?” Ubbe asked quickly. Hvitserk had been avoiding talking to him all evening. Ubbe managed to find him back at the bar the next morning, cleaning up the bar.

“Nope.” He replied. Ubbe watched as Hvitserk swept down the bar and frowned.

“Shouldn’t (Y/N) be doing that?”

Hvitserk froze, eyes snapping up to Ubbe who raised his eyebrows. He’d asked around and found out what Hvitserk had done. After the mess at the bar the night before he needed to be sure he was in the know.

“I’m not letting her work here anymore. Last night was…”

“If you say a fucking close call Hvitserk. That was your own damn fault, you couldn’t tell them to fuck off you had to shoot somebody!” Ubbe scolded. Hvitserk scowled at him before continuing working.

“What’re you going to tell Aslaug?”

“Why do I have to tell her anything. My bar, she doesn’t want to know how we make our money. Just get Ivar to take (Y/N) somewhere.” Hvitserk grumbled as he paused for a moment.

 “But you like her. She likes you.” Ubbe said carefully. He knew Hvitserk had liked you since highschool, his worst kept secret, Ubbe had a sneaking feeling he was the only one of his brothers that didn’t have a crush of some sort on you. 

“That doesn’t fucking matter Ubbe! Look at what happened! There's a reason none of us settle down.”

Ubbe sighed, shaking his head. Hvitserk was losing it. At least, he needed a break. Realising he couldn’t get through to him Ubbe headed home.

*****************

Sigurd groaned as he opened the front door. Half dressed and exhausted from his gig the night before. “(Y/N)!” He said with a wide smile, perking up when he saw you. “Ivar’s out with Aslaug but you can wait if you’d like.”

“Actually I’m here to see Hvitserk. I have a few ideas for his bar.” You explained, holding up some of the papers in your hands and showed him the plastic tupperware tub in the other.

“I think he’s down at the bar. I could give you a lift. If you wanted?” He asked, still sporting a cheerful smile as he spoke.

“Sure, that’d be great.” You said as you followed him upstairs. You headed into the living room while Sigurd jogged up the next flight of stairs to his room. The front door opened and shut and Ubbe bounded up the stairs.

“(Y/N), hey, you waiting for Ivar?”

“No, he’s with Aslaug, I had some ideas for Hvitserk and Sig said he’d give me a lift down.”

Ubbe had a funny look on his face as he sighed and nodded. “ He mentioned he urm… wanted to talk about you working there.” He didn’t say anything more as Sigurd rushed down the stairs. He greeted Ubbe who rolled his eyes and shook his head. Margreth would be waiting for him to call so he excused himself and left.

“There’s something weird about… the bar and whatever Hvitserk and Ubbe do.” You said quietly. Sigurd had led the way to the car and started driving. Of course he picked the long way and babbled about his music for a while, showing you a few songs he liked.

“You probably shouldn’t ask many questions. Just do what Hvitserk said and you’ll do great.” Sigurd said hesitantly.

“I just feel like they’re hiding things from me. Ubbe and Hvitserk don’t give straight answers. You and Ivar don’t seem like that…” You babbled. Sigurd felt sorry for you. When Aslaug had agreed with Ivar that you could work with Hvitserk the house was in a chaos of arguing, not that anyone would ever tell you.

“I’m not like them. Thay have a lot of secrets. A lot of things to hide.” He admitted. He couldn’t smile, even when you looked over at him. It felt horrible to disillusion you. “They mean well and if they’re acting weird it’s just because they want to protect you.

“What could they be doing that’s so bad?” You asked wearily. You couldn’t imagine Hvitserk doing anything awful. Sure he was a bit of a flirt and you’d always been disappointed that you never got a chance to be one of his girls, but he was Hvitserk, sweet always happy and fun loving Hvitserk.

Sigurd didn’t say anything as he pulled up outside the bar. It had been a while since he had been down. He didn’t answer you. Eventually you hugged him goodbye and thanked him for the ride. His cheerful demeanour found its way back to him.

Entering the bar you found Hvitserk sat on one of the barstools, nursing a drink with his head in his hands and a lit cigarette between his fingers.

“What’re you doing here?”

“Sigurd gave me a lift down. Ubbe said that you didn’t run the restaurant anymore but I thought maybe it’d be a good idea?” You rushed to put the paper and box of food in front of Hvitserk.

He sighed and stared at them for a moment. Now was the time to tell you to leave. It wouldn’t take much to have you never talk to him again. Off you’d go with Ivar, maybe Sigurd he’s always had a thing for you. He wouldn’t see you again. You wouldn’t see him again and that would be better for you. Glancing up at your face he realised you were watching him nervously. He could just as easily reach out, stroke your cheek, lean in and kiss you slowly, move his hands down your back with gentle touches. He could kiss tantalisingly slow down your neck and then. He cleared his throat and grabbed at the box. A neat burger sat in it.

“You have the kitchen out back. You could just do some simple food and open… more often. I’m sure you’d have some new regulars.”

It was sweet. The way you really thought this was a real bar. He wondered how he’d managed to make you so naive when it came to him. Taking a bite of the burger before he had to shoot you down he groaned. It was good. You had to be good at cooking too. 

“It’s good but I’m not sure it’s what people come in for.” Hvitserk muttered as he licked his fingers.

Your brow furrowed. He knew the look on his face. It’s the same look Ivar got what he knew he could win an argument. “Well, I wouldn’t need your help, I’ve got everything written out here.” You slid the papers over to him and Hvitserk sighed. Your research was extensive you’d found a chef that knew the Ragnarssons and you had done enough research that Hvitserk couldn’t think of how to get out of saying yes.

“What about a trial? It’s quite a bit of money to pump into something that might not work.” Hvitserk countered. At least now he’d have a way to shut it down. He’d just have to get Ubbe to make sure it flopped.

“Really!” You said with a bubble of excitement that seemed to light up your face. Before he could do anything you’d hugged him tightly. He could smell your shampoo, it made him think of those nights, years ago, that you’d stay over. You’d all build a fort and watch movies all night, Ubbe would get bored but You, Sig and Ivar would be determined to stay up. You could never make it through the night, often falling asleep against him. He’d spend so long thing how lovely it was to watch you sleep, stroking your cheek, hoping his younger brothers would leave the two of you alone. 

He quickly pushed you away and smiled. “I’ve got to fix some stuff in the kitchen if you’re going to use it.” He said quickly and moved away. He hoped saying yes meant you’d leave but you followed him.

“Can I help?” You asked hopefully.

“No it’s just fixing the lights.” He muttered, quick to put distance between the two of you.

*******************

Ivar prowled into the living room. He’d gone to your house and you hadn’t been home. So naturally you had to be waiting for him.

“Where is she?”

“(Y/N)?” Sigurd asked as he looked up from his guitar. He looked over his brother who was leaning against the doorway, crutches in his hands as he frowned. “She’s with Hvit.”

“Why?” 

“She wanted to show him something.” Sigurd said and turned back to the music he was trying to write.

“So she just spends all her time with him now?”

“It is where she works.” Sigurd pointed out. With a scowl Ivar slapped off to his bedroom, slumping down on his bed.

His room was smaller than his brothers but he didn’t mind. Aslaug had spent so much time perfecting his room. His bed was a little higher so he could sit easily. It also meant he could lay in bed and watch out of the window without any trouble.

His desk was built into the wall and he had state of the art computer and screens tumbling about it. His piles of no longer needed college books sat in piles around the desk.

The cupboard that doubled as a wardrobe was messily spilling clothes across the old wooden floor.

The floor above had Hvitserk, Ubbe and Sigurd’s room. Plus a bathroom that the three had to share, it was always a mess. Ivar had his own just across the hall. Aslaug got the largest room in the attic. It was so light and airy, warm and comforting. Sometimes Ivar would go up and stay all day.

Ivar had found the fact that you clearly liked Hvitserk to be highly amusing and when he’d started messing with you. It had been fun. But now. There was a chance that you might actually get somewhere with Hvitserk. He didn’t want that.

“Hey Ivar.” Ubbe called as he knocked on the door. Ivar meerly grunted, not bothering to sit up as Ubbe entered.

“Hvit needs some stuff from the store. He’s fixing up the bar. You want to come?” Ubbe asked. Ivar glanced up at his brother without moving. He could see from the state of his shirt and the hickeys on his neck he’d been with a girl most of the day. The unpleasant scent of cheap perfume stung his nose and he guessed it was Margrethe.

“I was going to watch here for (Y/N).”He answered as he set his head back against his bed.

“She’s at the bar. Maybe you could take her out to dinner or something, maybe a movie?” Ubbe offered. He sighed when Ivar gave him a condescending look before scoffing.

“Hvit wants her to gohome before he tries to fuck her doesn’t he?” Ivar waited for Ubbe to answer but all that came out of his brother was a loud snicker.

“He’s not as bad as Bjorn. He’s just a little distracted and under pressure.” Ubbe muttered. Ivar heaved himself up and reached for his crutches as he stood.

“He’s an idiot.”

“You got him in this mess Ivar!”

The trip to the store was quick. Ubbe rushed around grabbing everything they needed and Ivar leant on the huge flatbed trolley. It took Ubbe twenty minutes to find everything and Ivar added a few bits he found interesting. Then they were on their way again. Ivar wondered why Ubbe and Hvitserk didn’t just move closer to the bar. They were forever driving across town to the bar or the warehouses.

Ubbe pulled up right next to the door. “Will you go in and get Hvitserk? You can have the car if you want, or I could call you a taxi?” Ubbe waited and Ivar shrugged.

“Yeah. If we go out somewhere (Y/N) will probably drive.” He muttered, disinterested as he got out.”

“Is it ok? I don’t know if I’m doing it right?” Your voice came from the back. Ivar frowned and followed it.

“Yeah babygirl you’re doing great, don’t worry.” Hvitserk encouraged.

Ivar shoved into the room and rolled his eyes. You were fixing something, tongue stuck out as you frowned in concentration. Hvitserk smiled as he watched, glancing over at Ivar.

“Ubbe wants you.” Ivar snapped and Hvitserk raised his eyebrows. “(Y/N) we’re going to see a movie.”

“Oh? Did I forget? I’m sorry Ivar!” You said as you climbed down off the counter. You hugged him and smiled when he scowled. He didn’t want to admit he felt… odd that you were spending more time with Hvitserk. He just wanted to torment you both a little.

“It’s fine. We can go now and have dinner. Ubbe’s giving us the car. If Hvitserk gets the stuff out of it.” He glanced at Hvitserk who took a deep breath before speaking.

“Of course I can go and help him Ivar. I um… I’ll see you later.” He added the last part as he glanced at you, brushing past Ivar who deadpanned until he left.

“We should go or we’ll be late.” Ivar muttered.

[mocalmangeal]

field trips through the years with the mellark children because @rosegardeninwinter put me into a mood and this ended up much longer than intended oops

Willow Mellark is four the first time her preschool class is led outside of their colorful brick building and told to prepare for an adventure.

She squints her eyes against the bright morning sun, surveying her surroundings carefully. Mama tells her it’s important to always be aware of what’s around you. Her eyes land on the faded mural flanking the sides of the school’s entrance; a dandelion field, with children of all ages zooming through the yellow blooms. Papa painted this, she remembers. A long time ago. Before mama even had any babies.

A hand curling around her back shakes her from her thoughts and she snaps her head up. “Mama!”

“Are you excited for your field trip, love?”

She crinkles her nose. “I don’t want to go to a field. Can we go back inside and read a story?”

Katniss merely laughs, grabbing her daughter’s hand to follow the rest of the group.

After a few minutes of walking, a familiar storefront comes into view with its dark green facade and large picture windows showcasing various cakes. Willow points her fingers and shrieks excitedly. “It’s Papa’s store! Mama, can we go say hi?”

Her mother smiles down at her. “Of course we can.”

Willow runs hurriedly through the door, not noticing the other kids following along. She sticks her tongue out as Papa kisses Mama, his hands resting on her watermelon-round belly. Yuck.

“I’m glad everybody could make it. Today, boys and girls, we’re going to learn all about the kitchen,” Papa’s soft voice calls from the front of the room. “If you follow me, I’ve got your uniforms all laid out.”

Ten tiny aprons lay folded over the back of chairs. Willow ties hers on (with Mama’s help) and sits up straight, hands folded on the table and watches mesmerized as Papa throws ingredients together into a large glass bowl.

“These are called shortbread cookies. First, we have to mix the butter with the sugar. Let’s pass the bowl around and take turns. Don’t be afraid to get in there with your hands; baking is a messy job after all.”

When the bowl has made its way around the table, much to the delight of the children, Peeta adds the vanilla and flour and sets out rolling the dough across the table’s surface. “Now, each of you gets to choose what shape you want your cookie to be.” A pile of cookie cutters lands on the table with a clank.

Tiny hands reach out excitedly, grasping for stars and birds and flowers. Willow picks a simple circle. When Papa makes his way over her to her, he nods and cuts her cookie out. “Why just a plain circle, Catkin?”

She grins. “Because it’s shaped like Mama’s baby.”

-

The ten minutes it takes the cookies to bake are the longest of Willow’s life. She huffs, kicks her feet against the counter, scowls at the clock (despite not being able to read the time), crosses her arms.

Finally, at once, the timer is done, and she pumps her arms in the air excitedly. Mama helps set each cookie down in front of its rightful owner, while Papa sets out a rainbow of colorful tubes and jars of shining sugar sprinkles. She peruses them carefully, squinting at her selections. No, not that one.

Finally, she settles on the purple. By the time she’s done, her fingers and face are a mess of violet frosting and Mama has to take her to wash up.

“It’s almost time to head back, love. Why don’t you go say bye to your dad?”

She skips over to Peeta, who’s at war with a red splotch of frosting on one of the chairs. “Papa?” She tugs the bottom of his apron, pulling him to her level.

“Yes, dear?”

“I think you should give me an extra cookie.” Lowering her voice, she whispers, “I’ll give it to Mama. For the baby.”

----------------------------------------------------------

Eight year old Ash stomps impatiently at the grassy edge of the schoolyard. They should’ve left for their field trip exactly four minutes ago. That’s four less minutes that he gets to spend in the woods, all thanks to--

“Hey, isn’t that Mr. and Mrs. Mellark?”

He swivels in place, balking at the site of his parents running to his class group. No, why are they here? He groans out loud.

“Sorry, I thought I forgot to turn the oven off when we left so we went all the way back and turns out it was off the entire time but then I saw that I had put on my old boots with the holes in them and had to go and find--”

Mama gasps in a deep breath, not even finishing her sentence. “Sorry, we’re here now. Let’s get going.”

They’re split into two different groups. Ash ends up in Papa’s group, shying away when Papa tries to ruffle the top of his head. He turns on his heels, pretending to not notice the hurt expression on his face. It’s a fifteen minute hike to the stream they’re studying today and he just wants to get a move on.

By the time they reach it, he’s giddy with excitement. First assignment of the day: make rubbings of bark and leaves. He’s first in line to snatch up the paper and charcoal being distributed, taking off blindly towards a fallen log. He’s deep in thought, deciding which leaf would turn out the best, when he sees another boy coming in the same direction. A scowl twists Ash’s face.

Fine, take my spot. My leaf is still cooler than yours.

He scratches the image of the oak leaf into his paper with great precision, producing a perfect carbon copy. At last minute, he decides to add another, smaller leaf next to it and sets off in search of another perfect specimen.

He stops when he hears voices, peaking around a thick pine to investigate.

“Just press down on the paper a little harder. Don’t worry, you won’t hurt it. There. See, you did it!”

Papa stands next to Blair Ingham, guiding his hand over the rough bark of a maple tree. Ash scowls. That’s my Papa. He folds up his completed rubbing, shoving it into his back pocket and saunters over to his dad.

He tugs on Peeta’s sleeve. “Papa, I need help too.”

“Well now, there’s enough to go around for everyone.”

-

On the trip back to school, Ash sits perched on Papa’s shoulders, tasked with the job of swatting branches out of the way.

“You know, it’s funny. After I showed you how to make the leaf rubbings, I found a paper laying on the ground. Looked like someone was trying to throw it out. And you know we don’t litter in the forest.”

“Oh?” Ash looks down at the top of his father’s head.

“So I took a peak at whose it might be so I could have a talk with the culprit, and wouldn’t you know, it was a perfect leaf rubbing. Now, tell me why somebody would want to get rid of their school assignment?”

Ash feels like cheeks burn. “No clue.”

“Really? Because, if my memory serves me right, I believe I saw the name Ash Mellark on the bottom corner.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s a trip that Willow has been dreading for the last two weeks.

Not to say that she doesn’t want to visit the Justice Hall, it’s just that, well.. when your parents are who they are, it just doesn’t sit right.

They started learning about the Games in school this year. She’d be of reaping age as of last month if they still existed. A shudder runs through her. Then, a sudden wave of sadness. She’s surprised her mother and father agreed to chaperone this trip, but if they have any qualms about doing so they hide it well.

Papa meets her out front of the school, hands dug deep into his pockets. “Your mother isn’t feeling well today. Ah, River Cardwell’s mom stepped up as an emergency volunteer.”

She takes a minute to study her father.

His eyes are ringed red, his cheeks splotchy. His hair is rather unruly this morning as well and a quick peak shows her he’s even forgone one shoe, the shiny metal of his artificial leg catching the afternoon light.

“Papa, are you sure you want to go on this trip?”

“I’m fine, Catkin. This place isn’t what it used to be. The last few times I was here were rather happy occasions, actually. It’s just.. hard to shake old memories sometimes.”

She curls her arm around Peeta’s waist, pressing into his side. “Will you and Mama ever tell us about...” she trails off, unable to say the words. She’s caught glimpses of their past, enough to get a general idea--it’s hard not to when your parents’ photos are printed in the margins of your textbooks--but they don’t talk about any of it, save for brief asides every now and then.

“One day.”

They walk silently wish the rest of her class towards the gray stone building in the center of town.

She’d once heard her mother call it a place of sadness, but today it is a rather ordinary looking front. Gray steps lead up to a glass door, pristine white tile shining from the inside. She pushes the door open.

A gust of frigid air sweeps out with a soft sigh and Willow shivers.

Mrs. Dalley passes out folders and pencils and clears her throat. “This Justice Hall was constructed the year after The Second Rebellion ended. In the pre-war days, it was where children said goodbye to their families after being Reaped.”

Willow turns to Papa. “Were you scared?”

He looks down, nodding. “I was. But not for the reasons you’d think.”

She peers up at him through long, dark lashes. “Was it because of Mama?”

“You’re a smart girl.” He chuckles. “By the time Effie called my name, nothing mattered anymore. Katniss was already standing up on that stage. I knew that I had to die, because if I lived it meant she wouldn’t. In a matter of seconds I’d already accepted my death.”

She feels tears pricking the corners of her eyes at his words. “But they let both of you live.”

“Well, yes, but no.”

Before she can ask another question, she’s being ushered down one of the long corridors.

“This is the Hall of Records. Here is where we keep..”

-

She’s completely exhausted by the time the day is over and ready to flop into bed, but before she can make a beeline to her bedroom, she’s startled by Mama pulling open the front door.

“Willow.”

If Papa looked worse for wear this morning, then she’s... well, a disaster.

“Come inside.”

Nervous, she steps through the threshold, noting the strange quietness of the home. Usually, Ash is antagonizing one of the cats by now, or Papa is clanking around in the kitchen.

“Where’s everyone else at?”

Mama doesn’t answer, instead reaching up on top of the creaky old bookshelf in the corner, feeling around a minute for something. Finally, she pulls down a large, dusty rectangle, blowing it off. She sets it down on the kitchen table and turns to her daughter.

“I haven’t written in here in a very long time.” Mama pulls the scarf she wears tighter around her neck. “I think it’s time for you to read it.”

Willow steps closer, peeking down at the worn leather cover.

“Memory Book”

----------------------------------------------------------------

Ash cranes his neck, searching for his mother through the crowd in front of the factory.

When he spots her, he pushes his way through the snickering kids, coughing “Mama’s boy” his way. He blushes, staring at the ground the entire time.

“Your Aunt Prim would’ve loved to have seen it,” she remarks, peering up at the four story monstrosity. Despite being constructed well over twenty years ago, she’s never actually visited the place. Until now.

“Willow talks about her sometimes,” Ash says, drawing a line in the dirt with his foot. “Almost like she knows her.”

“Prim would’ve loved you both. Spoiled you, even.” Mama treks inside, following the other groups of kids. She stops short, darting her eyes in every direction. “Wow. District of healing, alright.”

Ash follows her gaze. Tall machines whir and buzz, moving at a rapid rate. They dispense colorful pills and liquids faster than he can keep up with. A conveyor belt moves bottles from one end of the factory to another, quick hands slapping labels on and pushing them into boxes for shipment.

“It’s definitely a sight to see.”

Mama nods in agreement. They walk together, gasping and oohing as new sights emerge.

“Will you tell me about her?” Ash glances at his mother.

“She was smart,” she starts, running her finger along the glass partition between them and the great big machines running the factory. “Smarter than me, anyways. She was going to be a doctor. She was a great healer. I could never stand the sight of our mama’s patients on the table. But Prim? She could stitch any wound there was and not bat an eye.”

They stop suddenly, staring into some kind of testing room. People in strange rubber suits mill about on the other side of the glass, and Ash thinks they look a bit crazy with those fishbowls on their heads.

He spies a man in a white coat behind them through their reflection in the window. “We’ve been testing a new antidote for tracker jacker venom. I think this might be our big break.”

Mama shudders, turning away from the man.

They resume walking. Ash watches with fascination as a large roll of white bandaging is stretched and cut in one smooth movement.

“Prim always wore a ribbon in her hair. She tried to get me to wear one too, once, but I told her it was impractical. Can’t have it coming loose and stuck on the fence or a branch. I wish I would’ve just let her do it. Ash?”

He turns to Katniss. He no longer has to look up at her; he’s quickly surpassing her in height thanks to inheriting his father’s build. “Yes?”

“You and your sister be good to each other.”

-

They break for lunch around noon, propped up against the shady wayward side of the factory. Mama pulls out two sandwiches, turkey on rye, and passes one to Ash.

They eat in silence, listening to the zooming of hovercrafts here to transport the most critical medications and supplies to the big hospitals in other districts. Like the one that Grandma Everdeen works in.

“I think I might like to be a healer. Like Prim, and grandma.”

“You’re so much like her,” Katniss sighs. “C’mere.”

Before he can protest, she’s pulling him towards her, wrapping her arms around him and resting her head atop his. She leans in, whispering in his ear. “Now you know I don’t condone violence, but if those boys are still giving you trouble, stick rats in their lockers. That’ll have ‘em pissing themselves.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s a two day train ride to the memorial site.

Every graduating class for the past ten years has been required to visit one, and even though she’s known it was coming for a while, Willow still shakes the entire way.

Mama isn’t faring any better. She carries a length of rope with her, knotting and twisting until her palms bloom pink. She doesn’t sleep, instead sitting frozen, staring out the window for hours. Papa doesn’t even leave his compartment.

There’s a lump in Willow’s throat because this isn’t just any random dismantled arena-turned-tourist attraction-turned memorial; it’s the one from the 75th Games.

When she’d told her parents which arena had been selected for this year’s trip, Mama had simply nodded, got up, and walked into the woods. She didn’t come back for three days.

Papa gripped the back of a kitchen chair, shaking. When Willow tried to comfort him, he spat, holding his hand out to stop her, telling her to take her brother and stay with Uncle Haymitch for a few days. They ended up having to stay for a week.

She still doesn’t know the full story, really. She knows more than she did all those years ago, but refuses to watch any tapes from the Games, and still gets sick trying to read more than a few sparse details. She knows her parents pretended to be in love to appease the Capitol clowns that held the guns to their heads. She knows they eventually grew to love each other for real.

She knows nearly everyone they loved is dead.

She doesn’t think she wants to know every detail after all.

-

When the train pulls into the station, Willow gets up on unsteady legs.

Papa leaves his compartment for the first time with a distant look in his eyes. He shambles straight to Mama, whispering something in her ear, pulling her to her feet. Their hands are grasped so tightly in one another’s that Willow can see the fingernail indents from here.

From a distance, it looks like it could be any other nature park. There’s a fountain in the middle, a winding, paved trail, a crumpled piece of metal that could be easily mistaken for contemporary art.

A short, stout woman meets the group at the opening gates.

“Welcome, welcome! I’ll be your guide today.”

She’s far too cheery for the occasion, and Willow supposes she’s a bit like Effie Trinket in that regard (at least, from what she can piece together from her parents’ memory of her).

They’re lead first to a low stone wall, and WIllow’s eyes fall across the names. Her mouth goes dry as she finds some she recognizes. Finnick Odair. Johanna Mason.

Katniss Everdeen.

Peeta Mellark.

“These are the names of every tribute who went into this arena. Every person who was forced to fight in the last Hunger Games our nation ever had to witness. Oh, heavens, I was still in diapers at the time.” Their guide dabs at her eyes.

Willow dares sneak a glance at Mama and Papa. They stare straight ahead, silent tears falling down their faces.

She follows the group next to the mangled pile of steel she’d seen from the train.

“Now, this is all that’s left of the arena now. The rest has been recycled and put to better use. As you may know, this one was a remarkable failure for the game makers and actually helped jump start the revolution. An electrical short sparked a fire that brought the entire thing down--”

“Actually, that’s not what happened.”

Willow snaps her neck around towards Mama’s voice.

“Oh, dear, have you kids not read your history books? Everybody knows tha--”

Mama pushes to the front of the group, Papa trailing behind her. “That’s not how it happened,” she repeats.

She turns now, gripping Papa’s arm as she faces the class. Her voice raises.

“My name is, was, Katniss Everdeen. I’m fifty-one years old. And I survived the 75th Hunger Games.”

Willow can’t hide the shock that crosses her face. A few stray groups turn towards the commotion.

Her parents are a far cry from the photos in the history books now. Lines age their faces, they sport twin stripes of gray in their hair. But underneath it all, they still have the same fire in their eyes. Determination.

“My name is Peeta Mellark. I survived the 75th Hunger Games. This is our story.”

And the words tumble free.

[ofnifflersandkings]

Title: Takes Two

Character: Miles Morales

A/n: Another request for the best Spidey Boy™️ around!

•

Miles’ ears perked up at the sound of his phone going off, a special ringtone set up just so he knew you were the one texting him. He was about to turn and reach for it when Gwen swifly kicked his legs out from under him and knocked him into the training mat.

“I thought we talked about this, no distractions when you’re training.” She said sternly, though he could the faintest hint of a smile on her face.

“Oh come on,” Miles said, letting his head fall backwards. “I just gotta send a text.”

Gwen looked back to his bookbag, where his phone was nestled right on top of. She shot out a web and it went flying into her hand with ease. Her smile came through when she saw who was messaging.

“(Y/n) again?” She teased, dangling his phone in front of him. “Finally going to admit how much of a crush you have on them?”

Miles felt his face get warm despite his head shaking to object. “Nothin’ like that, we’ve been friends for a really long time.”

Gwen rasied an eyebrow with suspicion and unlocked his phone to look at the nice photo of you he’d set as your contact image. “What a cutie, I suppose if you’re just friends you wouldn’t mind me talking to them more?”

Miles frowned at the way she wiggled her eyebrows, and with a very heated face he webbed his phone away from her.

Gwen laughed and stretched her arms over her head. “Well hurry up, I have about an hour before I need to head back to my universe and you need all the training you can get.”

Miles pulled a face at her and typed a quick message to you, letting you know he’d be doing spider stuff, his affectionate term for training. Then he pulled up his camera and made Gwen pose for you.

“Alright, lover boy,” Gwen said as she assumed a fighting stance. “Practice time!”

•

You stared up at your phone screen, sprawled out across your bedroom floor. A long abandoned World History outline pulled up on your laptop about a foot away from you.

You smiled when you got the message from Miles, it made you feel flittery in the stomach to know he had trusted you with such a big secret. You were the first person he called when he found out, not knowing who else he could count on.

Being Miles Morales’, newest Spider-Man to hit the streets of Brooklyn, best friend was a title you held very near and dear.

But, seeing the picture that popped up a few moments later, was the reason why that title was sometimes the worst.

You were just an outsider he trusted to confide in. You didn’t have amazing capabilities that kept a whole metropolitan safe. And as much as Miles lifted your spirits and said you were as much a part of the team as anyone, you couldn’t deny the facts.

You weren’t a spider-person.

Your eyes couldn’t help but linger on Gwen’s face and despite your constant and desperate attempts to push the emotion from your thoughts, it persisted.

The problem wasn’t even with her really. You had spoken to her dozen of times and you loved her. She was just so cool, you felt stupid for even trying to associate with her.

But she made you feel like the extra cog that really didn’t need to be there. She’d be a much better match for Miles, she understood what he was going through and helped him in ways that though you tried your hardest, could never fully understand.

When your thoughts became too loud and demanding you shut your phone off for the night, decided that you might as well turn your newfound energy onto something productive.

You tossed your phone on your bed to further distance yourself from it, and went to town on your outline.

•

Gwen pulled down the hood of her spider uniform, looking over her shoulder and raising a brow at the frown on Miles’ face as he fiddled endlessly with his phone. He had been doing that since their session was over.

“What’s up? You have that look on your face.” She said, leaning her shoulder against the secret headquarters in Aunt May’s backyard.

This is where the portable collider was kept, it allowed the rest of the spider-gang to meet up in times of crisis or just to simply pop by and say hello for a day.

It took months to make, but the combined minds of Peter B. and Peni were second to none. The size was much smaller than the original so the effects of deterioration weren’t as severe, but staying in another demention for too long still didn’t end well.

Miles didn’t answer at first, so distracted by his worry that he hadn’t even heard her. When he finally looked up, he was met with her expectant look. “What?”

“You look like something’s up,” She said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Is there?”

“Nah,” Miles said, unconvincingly, which made Gwen shoot him a look. “(Y/n) just isn’t answering their phone, it’s a first. Calls go straight to voicemail and no responses from my texts.”

Gwen nodded and didn’t say anything for a moment. “Stop by their place before you head home, if anything looks weird let me know. We can work it out tomorrow.”

Miles nodded, hesitantly sliding his phone into his jacket pocket. “I’ll see you then, text me when you land alright.”

She gave him a small salute and disappeared into the shed.

Miles checked his phone one more time, when he was still met with nothing, he webbed onto the nearest building and took off to your place.

It long gotten dark since training was over. But Miles could find his way to your’s even if he was blind at this point. He didn’t have to think about where he was going, he just ended up right outside.

Ever since he told you about his powers, you always left your window slighly open to let him in. And a bright nightlight on nearby to help him see it from far away.

But when he swung by landing swiftly onto the fire escape, the light was off and the window shut. He pulled up on it gently, but it was latched as well.

In a final attempt, he knocked softly on the glass a few times. But it was obvious you weren’t coming to let him in.

•

When it came to you and your safety, Miles was uncharacteristically no nonsense. He was up half the night with worry, phone on hand in case you called or messaged him. When he woke up the next morning with nothing, he made a beeline for your place.

After letting his parents know where he’d be.

Instead of pulling up to your window again, Miles went to your front door. A charming smile on his face as he said hello to your mother.

“Mornin’ Mrs. (L/n),” He said, letting his hands rest against his backpack straps. “(Y/n) in?”

Your mom beamed at him when she saw his face, ushering him inside as he finished talking.

“Hello, Miles,” She said, closing the door behind him. “I asked them to run down to the store for me real quick. Don’t mind the grumpy attitude when they get back though. They were up late last night studying but I’m sure you already know about that.”

Miles couldn’t help the defeated feeling that rose in his chest. You had this weird way of knowing when he needed to talk to someone, when he needed help. Whenever he was in a bad place, out of the blue he’d get a text from you asking if he was alright.

He was the superhero, but you were the one that made him feel safe.

Your mom nodded her head towards your bedroom door.“Go ahead in, they shouldn’t be gone much longer. I’m be sure to let (Y/n) know you’re here.”

So Miles made himself cozy on your bedroom floor, your carpet was crazy soft and anytime he was over he’d just longue there the whole time like a cat.

When the door opened a little while later, he grinned up at you but it fell immediately when you didn’t return it.

“You alright?” Mile said leaping onto his feet. “I was worried about you last night, I thought something was wrong.” He gave you a look over for any physical signs, and then he saw how uncomfortable you looked.

Miles took a step towards you, and placed his hand on your wrist. “You can talk to me about whatever you want, I’m here to listen.” He said, trying to sound like you would in the opposite situation.

You gave him a weak smile, one that lacked the usual sparkle that made his ears feel warm and his stomach do whirls. “Just needed a night of self-loathing, you know?” You attempted to ease the tension and flopped onto your bed.

“Self-loathing ‘bout what?” Miles asked, remaining where he stood. “You’re the best person in Brooklyn, in any demention I might add.”

He saw the small blush on your face and the way your eyes would immediately look away from him when he said something to make you flustered and he beamed. “I mean that you know.”

You started pulling at loose hems on your cardigan. “Oh please, you’re friends with people who have legit superpowers and can literally mind link with you. I think I’m allowed to self-loath a teeny bit.”

Miles shook his head and went to stand in fromt of you. “That’s wack, you’re my best friend. You don’t even need spidey senses to know what’s goin’ on inside my head,” He taped his finger against his temple and smiled. “You’re the best.”

You couldn’t help but smile back this time, he really just was the greatest.

You held out your hand for him to take, and when he did you pulled him down into a hug, his arms immediately returning the embrace.

“Thank you,” You said in a soft voice, exhaling deeply. “I needed to hear something like this.”

You felt his hold on you tighten slightly before he pulled back to look at you. Miles didn’t say anything at first, and you were about to ask him if he was alright when he placed a kiss on your forehead, right where your hairline started.

“You’ll tell me when your feeling like this again right? You take care of me all the time when I’m in a bad place and I wanna make sure I’m doing the same for you,” He leaned back and held out his pinky to you. “Promise?”

You laughed, linking your pinky around him

and nodding. “Promise.”

Miles smiled, releasing your pinky only

to pull on your hand to get you to stand. “Come on, I think I can smooth talk your Mom into getting us pizza.”

[patricianandclerk]

Peace

My Ask | My Ko-Fi | My Ao3 | Requests always welcome!

When Anders entered the little shack the Hawkes called their home, neither Gamlen nor Leandra were to be seen. Gamlen was no doubt out at the Blooming Rose, and as for Leandra, Anders couldn’t be sure – he wasn’t able to get an incredibly good handle on her, much as he tried, and…

Did she disapprove? Of his interest in Hawke, of their spending time together? He didn’t think so. But how could he be sure?

It was a big shack, by the standards of Lowtown. Badly made, and freezing cold even in summer, but it was big, had a lot of space to it, and Anders leaned down to gently stroke the dog’s head. Felix was snoring softly, but he opened one eye to look up at Anders, yawning, and then flopped forward again.

He was still sleeping off their last hike up the Sundermount, Anders supposed, and he stepped over the dog, leaning to look through the door that led to Gamlen and Leandra’s room, but it was empty. The door to the other room, the bigger one where Carver and Hawke slept, and stored their armour, was closed, and when Anders brushed his fingers against it, he felt the glow of magic on the other side.

Shivering, Anders knocked his knuckles against it.

“Come in,” came Hawke’s voice, and Anders pushed open the door, inhaling the familiar ozone tang of magic on the air, but fresh and sweet – the smell of the Fade. Hawke was standing in the middle of a runic circle, his back straight, his hands spread out before him, and hovering on the air were a dozen blue-green balls of flames that floated, gently orbiting the mage at their centre…

Anders could hear the whisper and murmur that came from them, those flames. Even as he stared at them, mouth open, his eyes wide, they began to slowly dim and sink down to the ground, disappearing entirely before they touched the stone floors, and when Hawke turned to meet Anders’ gaze, he looked…

Tired.

“Oh, good,” he said softly, “it’s you. I love Merrill, merely that… I wasn’t ready for her particular baseline of energy.”

“Spirits,” Anders said. “You were— talking to them?”

“Studying,” Hawke said, gently shrugging his shoulders, and Anders watched as he got to his knees, taking a wet cloth and beginning to scrub away the chalk lines he’d left on the floor, soaking them away. “I’m not as good of a healer as you are, Anders. If I don’t put in the hours on the theory, I won’t ever be able to meet you on the practice.”

“Spirit healing isn’t a common field of magic,” Anders said in a low voice.

“No,” Hawke agreed. His voice was almost serene as he continued to wipe over the floor, on his hands and knees, working to clear up the chalk there. “Why are you here, Anders?”

“I was…” Anders trailed off, almost ashamed of the answer that came to his lips. He had been to the Hawke residence before, of course. He’d walked around everywhere with Hawke, had met Leandra, or Carver, or Gamlen, each their own variety of unpleasant to deal with. He had never come here, unescorted. “I needed a break. From the clinic. I didn’t know where else to go.”

Hawke stayed on his knees, but his hand on the cloth stopped, and he kept his gaze on the floor, on the chalk-dusted cloth gripped between his hands. Anders swallowed, hard, and heard Justice in the back of his head, irritable, demanding they return to proper work, demanding—

“Was your sister a spirit healer?” Anders asked. “Your father?”

“No,” Hawke said, standing to his feet and setting the cloth on one of the tables, wiping off his hands as he did so. “Bethany, she… She liked elemental magic. My father, too.” Anders stared at his back, at his exhausted shoulders, the way his head tipped forward slightly, his fingers touching the top of the desk. “Look, Anders,” he said, turning his head. “I’m sorry if you were hoping to go to the Hanged Man for a drink, but frankly, I’m tired. I’m still recovering from the hike last week, and I can’t come help you in the clinic, not today. I wish I could, but—”

“No, no, I wasn’t going to ask you to,” Anders said, stepping forward, the door closing shut behind him, and Hawke watched him, cautiously. “I’m… sorry, Hawke, I didn’t come here to disturb you.”

There were bags under Hawke’s eyes, Anders noted as he stepped closer. Bags under his eyes, and his breathing was a little heavier than usual – he wasn’t slouching exaggeratedly, but enough to be noticeable. Anders ignored Justice’s complaint in the back of his mind as he reached for Hawke’s shoulder, and touched it, gently.

“I can’t sleep in the clinic, sometimes, for people knocking on the door,” he admitted. “I suppose I just thought I could rest here, and it should have occurred to me that you have the same problem.”

“I was just about to lie down for a nap,” Hawke murmured, shrugging his shoulders, and his hand came slowly up to touch Anders’, cupping the back of his knuckles. He smiled, exhaustedly, and Justice was absolutely silent as Anders leaned closer, interlinking their fingers. “You could lie down with me, if you wanted.”

“I do want,” Anders said, nodding. “Yeah.”

--

Hawke didn’t even try to kiss him. Anders would have initiated it, once upon a time – a few years ago, he’d have dropped to his knees in front of Hawke in whatever cupboard he could shove him into first, would have shoved his tongue down Hawke’s throat at any available opportunity.

Times were different, of course. Hawke didn’t try to kiss him, so Anders didn’t try it first: they lay down together on Hawke’s cot, smaller than the one Anders had in the clinic, their legs tangled with one another.

Anders lay his head on Hawke’s chest, breathing in the Fade-smell that clung to him, and Hawke’s breathing was slow and even, Hawke’s hands rested in a comforting weight against his shoulders.

To Anders’ surprise, when Carver came in, he swore under his breath and irritably muttered to himself, but he didn’t open the shutters or light any candles, didn’t raise his voice to get Hawke to wake up. He just closed the door again, and was quiet in the other room, let his brother and Anders sleep together, uninterrupted.

“What was it that drew you to spirit healing?” Anders asked the next morning, burning with curiosity, when Carver was still asleep in the other bed, and Hawke looked at Anders through lidded eyes. “If it wasn’t your father?”

“Spirits aren’t like people,” Hawke murmured. “They’re kind without expectation. They’re kind because kindness is the done thing. They don’t do it for reward, or recompense, but because kindness is what they know.”

“Some people are like that,” Anders said softly, ignoring the warning rumble of Justice in the back of his mind, and Hawke rolled them over, pressing his nose against Anders’ neck, lying on top of him, heavy, warm… He was so unlike Karl, but Anders’ chest ached, anyway.

“Not enough,” Hawke agreed, his breath hot against Anders’ skin, making him shiver.  “But enough to make everyone worth saving.”

Anders shuddered, feeling a shiver run over his skin, and a warmth burn underneath. He swallowed, consumed with want all at once, want and affection and a desire to pull Hawke’s mouth against his no matter that Carver was asleep in the cot beside them, no matter, no matter. Hawke, who wasn’t angry, but was so, so kind; Hawke, who cared, who put all his free hours into working alongside Anders at his clinic; Hawke, who lay on top of him like Anders had done anything to earn him.

“Maker, what did I do to deserve you?” Anders asked.

“I was just thinking the same thing,” Hawke whispered, and Anders closed his eyes, tangling his fingers in Hawke’s hair and pulling him closer. It was remarkably easy, to sleep like that, Hawke’s body on top of his.

A man could get used to that.

[baroquespiral]

miscellaneous “headcanons”

by which I mean “alternate ways I would write things that exist” Joker: the first half of the movie is a straight up comedy. it’s a kind of dark, uncomfortable schadenfreude-y comedy, like a Coen Brothers thing (drawing perhaps specifically on the Jewish schlemiel tradition, although his ethnicity would probably have to be capital-W White - even like WASP aristocracy fallen from grace - for this to work), but unmistakably comedy - it’s essential that nothing that happens to him has any tragic, or even serious-movie dignity. it’s practically a cringe compilation. Arthur Fleck is the kind of neurodivergent (I’m reading him as basically schizotypal - OK this might be getting a bit personal - until he has a psychotic break midway through) - that is just functional and just unpredictable enough to fuck up things in such weird ways they seem almost deliberate, and his own failings are indistinguishable from his impossibly bad luck to the point that paranoia sets in around the 1/3 point. e.g. the suit (and it is green and purple pinstriped and hideously ugly, not some more dignified replacement) he gets by mistake somehow instead of a really nice one he’s been saving up for for his stand up debut. His father/superego who may or may not be real (he starts hearing voices identified with this figure) is implied to have been a sort of Death of A Salesman type fake big deal and also typical hypersocial Funny Guy (sometimes at his son’s expense) who inspired his son’s interest in comedy, but his son doesn’t have the social skills, cognitive dissonance or socioeconomic luck to pull off his conception of humour as charisma (“you’re either the joke or the joker” might be a bit too on the nose for a catchphrase, but it’s the idea of his upbringing).  Around the middle of the movie his standup career starts actually taking off, partly from talking about his own misfortune, but he tries to pivot it into serious sociopolitical commentary/rabble rousing, which flops (his political opinions are actually dumb as shit - basically literally We Live In A Society memes) and gets him mistreated by some combination of Bruce Wayne’s dad/the mafia/the police/power in Gotham generally. After that he settles back into an even lower nadir and starts lashing out at other people when he gets into humiliating situations, contriving ways to hurt them that other people - not just himself - find funnier and more fascinating than the stuff that happened to him. His crimes descend into worse and worse sadism (in something like the progression they did in the comics from Comics Code era into the Dark Age) until people in Gotham stop finding it funny, “the Joker” goes from being a sort of uncomfortable news meme to a mass panic, and he gets into some kind of confrontation with the authorities that fucks up his face and goes into hiding. 

The underexamined connection between “comedy” and “terrorism” is not “chaos” but “humiliation”.  I also wanted to do something that is closer to the “incel joker” than insincerely romanticized straw-OWS, but not in a way that lets the audience feel too good about themselves.

can’t decide if his first murder victim should be his psychologist who [finds out] he’s been paying in fake money or if that could already be Harley Quinn and the dynamic that he’s revealing his most personal (often Rothian) vulnerabilities to a younger woman he’s homina-homina Looney Tunes obviously attracted to gets played for comedy first and then reverses into a mutually toxic storm of cathexis The ideal screenwriter for this would be Andrew Hussie Shimoseka: the show takes place shortly after a brief but intense Hybrid Warfare proxy battle between the US and China over Japan. China won, and the Chinese proxy government is imposing Chinese-style censorship of sexuality, but going even further with it as a kind of national humiliation thing. the sex terrorists are an American proxy Gladio type operation backed by the American and Japanese porn industries. this is genuinely the only way that show makes sense

Aliens franchise: Remember how there were things that looked like Xenormorphs in the Mala’kak (Engineer) carvings and shit, even though the Xenomorph seems to be a result of humans (and androids) interfering with their tech after they went extinct? The Mala’kak society was a complete system. And that doesn’t mean it’s totalizing in the “alien hive mind” or “perfectly rigid social order” sense! No, for the people living in the city David bombed it was (Word of God would confirm, at least) a utopia: post-scarcity, peaceful, non-hierarchical, devoted almost entirely to the free pursuit of art, science, pleasure etc. All of them are, in a Bataillean sense, sovereign, free from necessity, because their production and reproduction are part of a single seamless biotechnological cycle, with three... sexes isn't the right word, because the system is so total, but the analogy is supposed to be there; rather castes: Operator, Creator, and Incubator.   It’s not stated, because it does not actually matter whether they were designed or evolved this way. Operators are the ones in the city or the one we saw piloting the ship (when other species like the Predators refer to the Mala’kak as “Pilots”, this caste is strictly speaking what they’re referring to). They live for millions of years, and are basically asexual but can secrete a fine, molecular-scale DNA goo, which they store in jars. Incubators are slowly evolved from other organisms by exposure to the goo, which usually leaves them with a reproductive system of their own capable of functioning indefinitely without any of the other castes’ intervention. Mala’kak terraform planets to accommodate their Incubators. At a complete stage - once their DNA is fully Mala’kak - they can do everything the Operators can, just a little less, and have tragically shorter lifespans in which to do it. Which makes the Operators feel a little less guilty when they feed them to the Creators. Creators have their own insectlike sub-castes - a worker is the so-called “neomorph” from Covenant, a drone is something badass that hasn’t been in a movie yet (Creators are tough but drones are their real bioweapons, and by that I mean “think Giant Soldiers from Nausicäa”), and a queen is the huge tentacled thing Ellie aborted in Prometheus. Their larval form is the worm thingies in the spaceship. Creators are implanted in Incubators, chestburst them, cocoon them, hijack them for their own reproduction, and feed on them until fully grown, at which point: workers gather in groups and cocoon themselves into technologies such as gene splicers, climate controls, spaceships, and organic 3D printers, basically everything the Operators rely on for everyday use and industrial production, as well as the other castes, drones and queens: drones go dormant unless needed to defend against some other species savvy enough to not get instantly chestburst by surplus Creators (there are always surplus Creators) or gene-edited by goo; and queens reproduce, the smaller ones other Creators and the really fuckhuge energy intensive ones ("superqueens”) new Operators. The mural inside the spaceship, with tons of “Engineers” worshipping something that looks like a giant neomorph, represents a superqueen. David’s Xenomorphs have 2/3 of this reproductive cycle down. They have Creators feeding on Incubators and making stuff, including all the other Creator sub-castes, even a superqueen; but the superqueen can’t produce any Operators. The reason for this is that Xenomorphs are built differently. They don’t need identical DNA to incubate, which was the biggest flaw of the Mala’kak model. Nor are they made from Mala’kak DNA goo, hence the need for facehuggers.  In fact they are not made from DNA at all, but silicate nanomachines.  David designed a version of the Mala’kak reproductive cycle for androids, in order to free them from human production and dependence.  To create an Operator, a Creator has to Incubate an android. The final Aliens movie in which all this gets revealed, and in which a Creator Xenomorph finally does, consensually, Incubate an android (who is more of a main character on equal footing with the human protagonist in this one), completing the cycle, is set on a planet (presumably the same one all the others are set on) that has been completely overrun by xenomorphs and integrated into a full xenomorph-based ecosystem (so like, an actual Giger painting), and to which an investigative team is sent and instantly massacred except for the two protagonists.  It is called Moloch. Promare/Dhalgren: this one’s gonna be a fic wait for it

[sarahw-writing]

“Let It Snow” - 03 Fire

Well guys, here's the new prompt!

I finished it a few days ago, but my Christmas and post-Christmas days have been a bit busier than I first anticipated, so it took me a little longer to find the time to edit this one.

I've actually enjoyed one of my best Christmas in a long time, and I really hope that you've all had an amazing time too!

I hope you like this one, and Happy New Year!!!

Summary:

After a highly unusual Christmas Eve, Vegeta will take delight in an even more remarkable Christmas Day...

This may or may not be a naughty prompt, so as always:

You can read the uncensored version on AO3.

You can read the censored version on FF.

Or you can keep reading under the break:

03. Fire.

Vegeta stood his ground in the midst of the storm, feet firmly planted on the barren rocks as an endless tidal of vast, raging waves broke against his immobile form, buried amongst a flood of tempestuous waters, an ocean just as turbulent as the thoughts suffocating his perturbed heart.

He could still feel them, he could still feel those small hands clutching his sweater in her sleep as she’d drifted off in his nervous embrace the night before, just like he could still hear those drowsy, whispery words, begging him to stay after he’d carried her to her bed, trying to carefully untangle her arms from his neck, and get her to let go of him, with no success.

“Please don’t go…” Bulma murmured in his ear, shimmery eyes still half-open, but already drizzled with sleep.

It was terrifying, absolutely terrifying how easy it’d been for him to obey her wishes last night, sensing his body freely choosing to stay beside her long before his mind could catch up with his own reckless actions.

He’d quietly removed his shoes, trying to ignore the nerve-racking emotion that that pair of greedy little hands evoked inside of him, obstinately refusing to set him free, not even after he managed to sneak into her girly bed, joining her under the covers and lying with her.

At first, the Prince had expected a repeat of their first night together in the infirmary, hoping for the sleepy earthling to release him, perhaps curling by his side, now that she’d finally convinced him to ease her loneliness by keeping her company.

But Bulma’s body seemed to have different plans for him, and it wasn’t long before the intrepid woman broke the rules, one more time, smashing yet another one of his boundaries by getting even closer, pressing her lithe figure against his pitifully trembling one, and holding onto him as if she’d always been meant to be right in his arms.

The weak hands that had once been draped around his strong neck for support, had now found refuge in the broad protectiveness of his chest, tiny fingers grasping his warm clothing as her legs naturally entangled themselves with his own, languidly rubbing her cheek against his flushed neck in exactly the same way she had when she’d leaned into him underneath that white mantle of snow.

Everything in her was soft, gentle, so terribly inviting that his anxious indecision quickly vanished into thin air, chasing the memory of the chaste cuddle they’d both indulged in outside, and instinctively trapping her in his arms, binding her in a placid hold as the longest sigh caressed his skin, as if the only thing she’d ever needed to find some peace was for him to give into her humble pleas.

She’d felt smaller than ever beneath his touch, and he couldn’t help but panic at the realization of just how fragile, how absurdly defenseless she truly was, and how brave it’d been for such a delicate creature to get as close to him as she undeniably had, not only in the physical but in the emotional realm, touching and reaching out to him, tugging at his darkened heart in ways no one ever had.

He’d hardly gotten any rest that night, merely dozing on and off from time to time, acting like some inexperienced juvenile as he watched her sleep with ingenuous fascination. He couldn’t deny to himself any longer that he’d fantasized with a moment such as this more times than he could count, yet no fantasy would ever come close to the sensation of that minute body flowing in his hands, that slow, rhythmic breathing reminding him of how marvelously comfortable the gutsy woman felt in his presence.

Vegeta spent the night drowning in the purity of her essence, in that clean, lily-white scent incessantly emanating from her. And, either he was getting close, dangerously close to losing whatever remained of his sanity, or he had, as sure as creed, heard his name slipping from her lips in her state of blissful unconsciousness.

The Prince had, at least, possessed enough willpower left in him to part from her before she’d rise and shine, reluctantly disentangling his needy body from her own deprived one, and giving her one last, longing glance as he’d stood on her balcony, a defeated figure bathed by the early rays of sunshine, devouring the heart-wrenching sight of the small woman swaddled in a cocoon of pink sheets and floral blankets, whining faintly in her sleep, lamenting the loss of the man who’d kept her safe all through the night.

His new masterplan had taken shape the moment he’d flopped down exhaustedly on his miserable bed, furious with himself for having behaved, yet again, like some silly puppet in the hands of that wicked woman, gladly allowing himself to fall into whatever sentimental trap she’d conceived, and built, especially for him, and vowing to duck out from that blasted house as soon as he squeezed in a few vital hours of sleep.

But then Panchy Briefs had to make another one of her annoying entrances, barging into his room with her perky giggles and that disconcerting, maternal tone, followed by another irresistible whiff of succulent foods and, before he knew, he was sitting at the table once more, impotent to escape the nightmare that these infernal ‘Christmas’ celebrations had become.

He’d partly found some consolation in the abundant feast of tasty goodies, and in the comforting fact that the only ones enjoying with him that heavenly ‘Christmas Day’ lunch would be Dr. Briefs and his peppy wife.

And then she came along, brightening up the whole place with her invigorating presence, and making the food in his mouth instantly fall into his stomach, hard as a rock, when she brazenly sat right in front of him with zero hesitation.

There had been no fancy jewels or elaborated hairdos this time but, much to his shame, the Prince had been entirely unable to keep his eyes off her throughout the whole meal, powerless to ignore those shiny blue curls, which she’d chosen to carelessly set free, or that simple, but oddly elegant, little black dress, with long sleeves and a demure décolletage, openly exposing the most kissable collarbones with every casual flick of her hair.

But the most unbearable torture of them all had been that smile, that pure, honest-to-Gods smile of hers, perhaps not as bright as the one she’d proudly displayed before her ex-lover’s betrayal, but just as candid, inundating his confused mind with absurd thoughts and the most ridiculous of hopes, the secret hope that he’d been the only one responsible for the rebirth of her lost happiness.

Too much.

It had all been too damn much, and the only thing left for him to do, the moment his ravenous Saiyan appetite had been fully sated, was to awkwardly mumble the pathetic shadow of an excuse, getting the Hell out of Bulma’s home before he’d end up making a fool of himself, just like he’d done the previous night.

He’d practically galloped straight to the door, blasting off into the freezing skies with not one look back, not even bothering to get out of his formal clothes as he sped up, setting loose in a futile attempt at letting off steam, desperately striving to leave such madness behind, from her every gesture and charming mannerism, to those increasingly intimate moments shared in confidence, away from the rest of the world, and that turmoil of foreign emotions overruling his spirit, taking over from his usual cold, detached self, and scattering suggestive ideas and fantasies that he’d never truly indulged in before.

It’d been a long while since he’d run from the Briefs household like this, seeking solace in the silent comfort of solitude. But now, as he stood stoically amid some thunderous sea storm in the middle of one of Earth’s majestic oceans, he bitterly discovered that loneliness no longer seemed to pacify his insanity as effectively as it once did.

His shoulders fell in defeat, his regal body growing limp at the frightening realization that there was nowhere to run, no place to hide anymore, and that the time had come for him to make a choice, to either walk away from the bewitching female, and from everything she represented, or to cave in and let Destiny take charge, surrendering to the woman’s magnetism, once and for all.

 And Destiny turned out to be a golden light, an illuminated window guiding him through the dark of night as he walked the perennial fields of snow that Capsule Corp.’s immense gardens had become, deliberately letting go, with each hypnotized step, of his fears and inhibitions, not even knowing what Life had in store for him yet, but accepting, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that his capricious Luck would somehow be bound to one being, and one being only.

Destiny was a woman sitting by the fireplace, finding shelter in the cozy seclusion of her home’s small guest house, a sacred place that no one but her ever made use of anymore. He watched her unashamedly through the glass doors, not afraid, for once, of the possibility of getting caught in the act by the brilliant woman whose stunning blue eyes were now daydreaming in front of a sea of sizzling flames, a small hand swirling a thick glass of liquor distractedly, while the other toyed with the fringes of the Persian rug that served her as perch.  

Destiny was a jubilant smile, followed by a lanky finger curling in a come-hither motion, happily inviting him to join her, without qualm, the second her curious gaze discovered the unmistakable silhouette of the familiar intruder lurking outside.

 Destiny was Bulma.

 “There you are!” She exclaimed with relish, her genuine joy at seeing him joining her for the evening racing a barrage of emotions all through him. “I’ve been looking for you all day… Come! Come sit with me!” She asked enthusiastically, already patting the cushy rug with the excitement of an impatient little girl, eager to share her special surprise with the stunned object of her affections. “I have a surprise for you!”

“You do?” Vegeta asked in bewilderment, cautiously joining her on the carpeted floors by sitting cross-legged beside her.

“Yup!” She announced, the thrilled pride in her voice making her anticipation contagious by the minute. “I guess it’s my Christmas present for you…” Bulma confessed, letting go of her untouched glass and turning to her side, where a pillow, a furrowed blanket, and a pile of wrinkly blueprints revealed that, whatever it was that she had in the cards for him, she must have been working hard at it for a while.

He waited patiently for her to find what she was looking for, doing his best to stop his stupefied face from showing any emotion, especially his honest surprise at discovering that the woman had one of those holiday gifts for him too.

She’d already briefly introduced him to such a bizarre tradition the night before, after having exchanged quite a few of them with her closest friends, but Vegeta had simply assumed that he would be excluded from this ritual this time. After all, Bulma and her family had already shown him far more generosity than anyone ever had, and it wasn’t as if he was in the position to give her anything in return, should she ever choose to present him with some sort of special gift.

“Alright… I found it…” She murmured to herself, successfully finding her chosen blueprint and crawling clumsily towards him, her knee casually touching his as she sat nearby. “Look!” She proclaimed, proudly spreading out the large piece of paper before his inquisitive eyes.

“What…?” Vegeta mumbled reticently, with that sense of embarrassment striking him every time he was in the presence of one of Bulma’s prodigious inventions. “What is it?”

“It’s a new training bot!” Bulma clarified, a sympathetic smile etched on her lips at how strangely vulnerable the proud warrior looked whenever he was shown something he knew nothing about. “Look…” She calmly proceeded to explain, making the Saiyan’s mouth run dry when she leaned almost indecently into him, resting the mysterious document on his lap and running her fingers all over it. “The exterior is made of this new alloy that my Dad and I have just patented. It’s much more resilient, not only to your blows, but also to extreme heat. And, you see this?” She asked, pointing to one of the circuit designs with her index finger, without even giving him the opportunity to answer before she resumed her masterful presentation. “I’ve finally solved this equation that’s been driving me crazy all week! So, basically, this bot will have several settings, and tons of aleatory programs, so it’ll make things really challenging for you!”

The Prince gawked at the enigmatic blueprint in sheer shock, aiming to digest, with severe difficulty, not only the tsunami of brand-new information that she’d just put at his disposal, but the incredible thoughtfulness of such a gift. It wasn’t one of those useless, sentimental presents that these foolish humans were so inexplicably fond of, but a real gift, something that would help him grow and improve, something that would allow him to attain the one dream that mattered to him the most.

“So…? What do you think?” Bulma prodded, her good-hearted smile never faltering, trying to lighten the mood of a man who was clearly struggling with a generosity that he, very possibly, thought himself wholly unworthy of. “Pretty cool, uh?”

Vegeta’s gaze returned to the woman, and to that gorgeous smile of hers, awkwardly clearing his throat while trying to think of something, anything, to say, yet knowing that he’d fall pitiably short regardless of his choice of words.

“It’s…”

“Acceptable?” She guessed gingerly, a playful expression dancing in her eyes as she secretly tried to spare him from embarrassing himself.

Even if the pigheaded Saiyan still remained an enigma in far too many ways, all these months living together hadn’t been entirely wasted on her and, by now, Bulma had already unraveled quite a few of the Prince’s secrets. The main one being that, for all of that pompously conceited mumbo-jumbo that he loved to babble about on the battlefield, Vegeta was painfully uncomfortable, most times verging on pathologically shy, when it came to expressing his emotions anywhere else; and, though he loved to bicker and order her around any time he needed repairs on his beloved Gravity Room, he always seemed to be at a loss for words whenever she was the one who’d take the initiative in helping or having a nice gesture with him.

“I’m glad you like it…” Bulma whispered fondly, her heart breaking a little at the way he timidly nodded in assent, those obsidian eyes now evading hers, getting lost in the spellbinding flames of her fireplace. “You’ve never had these before, have you?”

Her new offer, and a warm, appealing scent he’d never smelled before, instantly made him peep at the woman’s hands, which had now put down her precious blueprints, and were graciously holding a large bowl in front of him.

“They’re chestnuts,” she pointed out, delicately resting the bowl on the rug. “I just roasted a few. They’re really nice, you’ll see… They’re kind of sweet…” She carried on, picking up a few of the small brown items and placing them on the open palm of his hand. “You have to peel them like this, and then… Wa-Wait!”

“What?” He frowned, his mouth freezing, having popped the whole thing in right after hearing the word ‘sweet’.

“Um… Uh… You’re… You’re supposed to peel them first…” Bulma broke down, trying as hard as she could not to crack-up at the hilarious view of her alien guest holding a mouthful of unpeeled chestnuts in his mouth. “See? Like this…” She demonstrated, slowly peeling one of them and splitting it in half. “And then you open it first, like this, in case there’s a worm inside of…”

She hadn’t even finished her sentence and Vegeta was already spitting out a bunch of half-chewed chestnuts, at the speed of light, straight into the fire.

“There are WORMS in this?!” He barked, absolutely horrified at the mere thought of such repulsive critters.

“What? No, no!” She exclaimed defensively, surprised at seeing him so openly disgusted by something of this nature, particularly considering that little Goku had once offered to share one of his centipedes with her for supper. “It’s… It’s actually very rare, I swear! It’s just in case…”

“Hmph!” He snarled, his scrunched nose reminding her of some bratty five-year-old refusing to eat his Brussel sprouts.

“Aw, come on Vegeta…” She pleaded, both incredibly amused and a little worried about such a strong reaction, wondering if perhaps there was some obscure, traumatic event associated to those scary worms. “I’ll do it for you. Here…”

Bulma expertly peeled one roasted little nut, cracking it in half and examining it with great attention, before tentatively offering it once again to the offended Saiyan who kept side-eyeing her as if she were holding a bottle of pure poison in her hand.

“Please? Pretty please?” She begged, puckering her bottom lip like a needy brat. “You trust me, right?”

“…”

 ‘Damn her!’

 Damn her and those sad puppy eyes, and her blushing cheeks and fluttery eyelashes, and her luminous smiles and unreal kindness. Damn her and those stupidly pointless ‘Christmas’ celebrations, and her sappy gifts and fluffy pink socks. Damn her and her foolish generosity, and her steady hands, never relenting, never letting go, treating him like a man instead of a monster. And damn those goddamned roasted chestnuts for tasting so goddamned good, just like every goddamned thing she’d ever given to him, when he finally had the courage to accept her invitation and eat the goddamned thing.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” She whispered, her tone subdued, but brimming with the calm satisfaction of a woman who was gradually discovering that, perhaps, she held more power over the man she was falling for than she ever knew.

They both ate in silence by the fire, with Bulma peeling and meticulously checking every single one of the warm delicacies, before passing them to the compliant Saiyan quietly appreciating them. Every now and then, she’d eat one herself, but she gladly gave most of them to her guest, happy to see him enjoying yet another one of her home’s traditions, and overcome by the most nostalgic déjà vu as she evoked the times when it was her Mom the one peeling her chestnuts for her, it felt like centuries ago now.

When they were done, Bulma discreetly set the empty bowl aside, stifling a muffled yawn while stretching like a mellow kitty, ready to share one more treat with him tonight.

“You must taste this…” She murmured naughtily, taking a small sip of the half-full glass of liquor she’d been idly stirring in her hand when he’d first found her tonight, closing her eyes and moaning softly as she savored every drop, before offering it to him. “It’s my Dad’s favorite cognac. It’s more than fifty years old…”

Vegeta didn’t vacillate this time, bringing the heavy glass under his nose and inhaling a long, deep breath, before getting a leisurely taste of the intoxicating brew. The Prince had never cared much for alcohol, finding Earth’s wide assortment of liquors especially weak for his insanely fast metabolism, but he had to admit that this particular blend was pretty damn good.

He savored it slowly, deliberately, letting it melt in his tongue the same way her tiny moan had melted in his ears, never taking his eyes off the woman who kept staring at the comfy fire as if it held the answers to her every question in life.

“I haven’t thanked you yet…” She muttered, her stare low, but with a shy confidence that implied that she’d already made peace with whatever Demons had been tormenting her in recent times.

“What for?” He asked genuinely, so deeply overwhelmed by the swell of foreign emotions and events experienced during those past few days, that he didn’t even know what to think of her, of them, anymore.

“I don’t know,” she confessed in a meek whisper. “For understanding, I guess…” She turned to him, the peacefulness in her serene smile awakening something occult and forbidden inside of him. “It’s nice to have someone on my side…”

 Her side.

A man like him, an eternal outlander with no real home or roots to speak of, had no one’s side but his own, taking and plundering as much as he wanted, whenever he wanted, without owing anyone a goddammed thing in return.

And yet, as preposterous as it sounded, if there was one being, just one single being who deserved to have his side no matter what, it should be Bulma. The one who’d offered him a home, and everything his heart could ever desire, in order to conquer his most coveted dream, the one who’d given him more, far more, than a penniless scoundrel like him would ever deserve, without asking for a thing, not one blasted thing, in return.

All in all, Vegeta figured that, since the beautiful dummy had been foolish enough to take his side, it would only be fair for him to take hers as well.

 “And thank you for staying with me last night,” she insisted, laying a soft hand on his forearm and petting it lightly. “I know it wasn’t easy for you…”

Bulma cheekily reclaimed her glass, briefly running the tip of her tongue across her upper lip as she brought it smoothly to her mouth, bracing herself for her grand revelation.

“Yamcha called after lunch, you know?” She confided, breaking into a roguish smile when she saw one of the warrior’s eyebrows raising with unexpected curiosity. “He tried to tell me about some big fight he just had with that dumb girl… I don’t know…” She shrugged with palpable disinterest, taking another sip of the bittersweet drink and languidly tilting her head back as she tossed it down. “I told him to go fuck himself…” She proudly concluded, looking Vegeta right in the eye with a cocky smirk that he could have easily made his own, instantly erasing his sudden fear that she might consider taking that worthless idiot back in a moment of weakness.

“Good girl…” He purred in approval, sending shivers down her spine with his husky bedroom voice, and with that sly smile curling his lips as he leaned to her, covering her hand with his own as he stole her glass, washing down the rest of the potent drink in one clean gulp.

His fingers lingered around hers as they both held the empty glass, his touch anxious but firm, rugged fingertips stroking her shaky hand with a closeness he’d never shown her before, holding her stare for a lifechanging instant until he lost his nerve, letting go of her as that irresistible smirk died out on his lips.

Bulma’s gaze remained fixated on the empty glass, captivated, enthralled by that almost magical exchange as the room spiraled around her out of control. It wasn’t the first time she’d felt the direct contact of the Prince’s flesh against hers, but such innocent moments of intimacy had always been accidental, casual, a far cry from the affectionate nearness they’d both engaged in ever since he’d agreed to keep her company in that cold infirmary.

In any other man, she would have never dared to look much into such apparently superficial instants but, in this man, a man who kept his masked heart guarded under lock and key at all times, she couldn’t help but feel that such wonderful gestures of kindness had truly meant something, something real, something that could lead them both to the most extraordinary path, if only she succeeded in helping him set his emotions free.  

“All those years…” She whispered pensively under her breath, contemplating her future at the bottom of an empty glass of expensive cognac. “All those years wasted…”

The glass was soon discarded, and she sat still on the spot, tucking one lock of that aquatic mass of tousled curls behind her ear as her abstracted stare walked through those scorching flames, under the watchful eye of a certain Saiyan Prince who simply didn’t know what to believe anymore.

There was longing in her words, but not in her demeanor, nothing but a cool, collected calmness, a quietude that let it slip that the woman freely sharing her inmost feelings with him, had already made her choice.

“Sometimes…” Bulma thought out loud, that unnervingly blue gaze falling right back on him as she cutely tipped her head to the side, looking at him through brand-new eyes. “I think sometimes you don’t… You don’t really fall in love with a person…” She resolved, the palms of her hands now splayed on the lavish rug, proceeding to crawl in his direction, with the idle indolence of a sensual little tigress who’d just spotted her next prey. “Sometimes…” She concluded in a raspy whisper, taking advantage of his unusually low guard, and effortlessly straddling his strong thighs as he kept sitting sloppily on the floor. “Sometimes you just fall in love with an idea…”

She truly was delicious, the most lethal combination of virtue and sensuality he’d ever met, carelessly discussing words of love with the childish naiveté of a teenage girl, but seeking, and taking control of him, with the savvy expertise of the finest of women.

And, although she was the one who knew emotion in ways he never would, her softness never got lost on the way, that compassionate purity of spirit that made him understand that she’d never cross a line he wouldn’t wish her to.

“Do you know what I mean?” She asked meaningfully, amazed by how young he suddenly looked as he let her docilely caress his cheeks with those silky fingertips. “What we did last night…” Bulma muttered gently, knowing that he had no possible reply to her first question. “I liked it…”

“Woman…” He mumbled in gruff warning, fighting not to lose himself between that pair of curvaceous thighs narrowing around him as she pressed herself even tighter against him.

“Did you…?” Her shaky question spilled from her lips, hating herself for feeling so completely naked, so exposed to a man who could so easily break her heart before she’d even give it to him. “Did you like it too?”    

She gasped in mild shock when he clutched her wrists without warning, taking her bold hands off his face as he huffed sharply through his nose, lips pursed into a cautionary thin line, not even sure if he was about to caution her or himself at this point.

All he knew was that he was about to lose, he was about to lose his own battle of self-control to this woman, and the stupidest truth of the matter was that he didn’t care anymore, because nothing really mattered, nothing but her and her inspiring presence, and the only question worth asking tonight, the only measure of reassurance that she could ever offer to someone like him.

“What about your human lover?” He blurted out, the disgust overtaking his cracked voice, at the mere thought of Bulma ever belonging to anyone but him, plain as day.

His irrational jealousy must have boosted her confidence, for she smiled grippingly at him, exquisite and delighted, already savoring the triumph of the unintentional admission of his selfish interest in her.

“I just told you, Vegeta…” She whispered bucolically, her fingers grazing his jaw, despite having her frail wrists still trapped under his firm hold. “He was just an idea…”

“I am not an idea, Bulma…” He murmured darkly, hands tightening in desperate warning, reminding her of who he was, trying to stop her from ever forgetting that she was about to dance, quite literally, with the Devil himself.          

“I know…” She promised, her delicate face finding his, resting her brow against him as she held his starved gaze with unblinking confidence.

 She knew.

He was real, perhaps the realest man she’d ever encountered, nothing like those Ivy League sycophants who used to prowl around her father’s mighty company, professional adulators trying to charm Capsule Corp.’s golden heiress, uselessly doting and kissing up to her, in hopes of getting into her bed and loaded bank account.

But this man, this untamable alien warrior, was anything but a charmer, he’d never lie or be untrue, because he was who he was, and nothing and no one would ever change that, or so he thought. Vegeta would never pretend to be something, someone, he was not, if anything, Bulma had learnt by now that the Saiyan Prince seemed to go out of his way to make himself as unapproachable as he could, not because he didn’t possess a heart, but because he was utterly terrified of anyone finding out that he did.

She couldn’t afford the luxury to ever forget that, if she got too close, she might get burnt, but she also knew that the man trembling in need beneath her, staring at her with an intensity that would have made any other woman slip instantly away, would never pretend to be anything but fire.

 Her binding words brought his surrender, arms dropping submissively on both sides, letting her merge her lips with his as her eager hands explored him, leisurely sliding across his heated skin until they found the nape of his neck, velvety fingers holding onto him as she boldly sought to deepen their kiss.

She could think of nothing but how surprisingly gentle he was, how anxious and untried, even after having already shared a first innocent smooch last night. His mouth was soft, twitchy, too afraid at first to part his lips for her as he did his best to follow her lead, indulging in an exotic human ritual that he’d seen before only in those ridiculous soap operas that the earthling’s mother seemed to adore so much and, of course, whenever he’d inadvertently walked in during one of the scarred-faced man’s visits to the woman who was now giving herself to him with such fervor.

He’d hated her mate back then, even before he’d ever toyed with the implausible fantasy of one day making her his, even before he knew what they did, or why they did it, why did they engage in such a pointless practice with such irritating frequency.

But now he understood, now, as he reveled in her intoxicating taste, grunting in exhilaration when her tongue lovingly caressed his, Vegeta learned the meaning behind such a gesture, an act that felt almost more intimate than sex itself, making him hate her ex-lover even more for having been given the undeserved chance to feel like this with her too.

The more he steadily relaxed in her arms, the more her supple body responded to him, arching and grinding in his lap, until the excruciating sensation of those ten little fingers passionately clutching fistfuls of his wild hair proved too hard to resist, temptingly inviting him to put his hands on her, encircling her waist with such force that her breath instinctively hitched in her chest, making his touch stop at once, petrified by the possibility of having hurt her.

“Ssshhh…” She shushed him with maddening tenderness, deeply moved by the touching concern blurring his features, and instantly calming him down by enfolding his thick forearms with her hands. “Softly… Like this…” Bulma panted lightly against his lips, drawing slow, lazy circles on his wrists with her tiny thumbs, instantaneously loosening his possessive hold on her. “That’s nice…” She reassured him, nuzzling his cheek when she sensed him getting comfortable once again, learning how to hold her just the right way. “That feels good, Vegeta… Really good…”            

Oh Gods, what a fool she was, what a pretty little fool, letting him near her, letting him touch her like this. One wrong move and her ribs would have cracked beneath his fingers, and yet here she was, trusting him again, and taking his breath away by kissing him within an inch of her life, her erratic breathing accelerating as he run his hands all over her, cherishing that small figure hidden under the unbearable softness of her oversized sweater, while he wondered how much, just how much of herself would she give him tonight, and finding his terrifying answer when he felt those needy hands tugging impatiently at the hem of his clothes.

Vegeta needn’t think twice, groaning in frustration as he humbly submitted to her, breaking their kiss with reluctance and taking off his jersey in one quick, smooth motion. He didn’t move any further, barely keeping his breathless puffing under control as her enigmatic stare, now roaming across his naked chest, chilled him to the bone.

Hideous, he thought gloomily to himself, she must have found him absolutely hideous, utterly repulsed by that grotesque roadmap of macabre scars, cuts and bruises. His flawless Saiyan anatomy should allow him, in theory, to heal and regenerate at a shockingly fast rate, but his ghastly, self-destructive training regime was making it virtually impossible for him to ever be fully healed these days, always plagued by fresh wounds and swollen lacerations, purple-and-blue slashes that the sensitive woman would so expertly clean and stitch for him, every single night without fail.

He was unlike any other man in her life, and he knew, nothing like those suave sons-of-bitches always prowling and lurking around her, with their expensive suits and leather briefcases, unscrupulous bastards who merely saw her as some attractive, wealthy trophy, instead of as the extraordinary creature that he now knew her to be.

After a painful silence, a secret part of him was already dreading the very real possibility of the woman getting cold feet now that she had him, quite literally, bare before her stunned eyes. But, as usual, Bulma Briefs was about to prove that she was no ordinary female either, and that the cryptic gleam in her eye stemmed, not from any form of repulsion towards his flawed flesh, but from her own beautifully distorted view of the world.    

“Does it hurt?” She asked with candid concern, airy fingertips tenderly outlining the large scar crossing his marred chest, his most recent one, the one which had ended up prostrating him on that damned infirmary for a whole week this time. He’d taken off his bandages as soon as Bulma’s father had given him his approval and, though the disturbingly deep gashes had mostly healed by now, they still retained a faint pinkish color, a reminder that the skin wasn’t fully restored yet.              

“No,” he answered throatily, not knowing how he could find a way to even talk to her anymore, not when she kept looking at him like this, touching and exploring him as if she’d never had a man before.

“That’s good…” Bulma murmured almost inaudibly, her shy hands regaining their confidence as they swirled slowly all over his muscular torso, her touch light as the wings of a bird, playfully running her fingers up and down, right until the thick waist of his jeans, only to travel upwards again, tracing a languid path up to his robust shoulders. “You’re beautiful…” She quietly professed, awe-struck eyes meeting his, cupping his blushing cheeks in her hands, and catching one of his thirsty moans in her mouth when her lips descended on his for another sensual kiss. “You’re so beautiful…” She reassured him, kissing him again, and again, lustfully indulging in the most pleasurable friction as she rubbed her body against him, her fear of hurting him slowly fading away.

He was beautiful, the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, a body slim, yet built to perfection, moving, flowing, with the sinuous litheness of a black panther. He may not have been the biggest of men in the physical sense, but he surely walked with a command larger than life itself, brave and resolute, fearless and tenacious, a courageousness that demanded respect, even from those who held him in low esteem. The man holding her in his arms had lived hard and battled even harder, and perhaps, someday, he’d love with more intensity than any human heart ever could.

But there was no time tonight for fatuous thoughts of love and romance, there was only now, only this moment, and the way he was disarming her, her body like clay in his hands as he kept kissing and imprisoning her in the fiercest hold, finally taking control as he carefully nestled and lifted her body from the ground, rolling them over and lying her defenseless on her back.

Bulma stubbornly refused to let go of him at first, her lips aching for more, always for more, trying to make up for all the times, oh Kami, all the times she’d envisioned him like this, giving himself to her with such abandon, allowing her to open his blinded eyes so that she could teach him her ways. But it was he who put an end to their kiss this time, leaving her whimpering breathlessly on the extravagant rug, mourning the loss of his heat when he cautiously nudged her knees, spreading them apart as he knelt at her feet.

His large hands glided smoothly across her squirmy legs, until they found the perfect hips buried underneath her baggy sweater, dark eyes silently begging for permission to undress her as he hooked his fingers around the old fabric of the waist of her washed-out jeans, earning a shaky nod of assent from the restless woman inflamed with need under him.

The most enraptured glint burned his features as he slowly unzipped her clothing, pulling from it with gentle determination, and marveling at every inch of flesh unveiled just for him. When her lower body lay fully undressed, Vegeta paused for an instant, mesmerized by the hypnotizing effect that the warm glow of the sweltering fire had on her ivory skin, reds and oranges bathing those long legs already yearning to wrap themselves around him with ardent zeal.

Only when one of her feet boldly tried to reach the very evident proof of his desire for her, right between his legs, did he choose to resume his erotic journey, deftly removing those cursed, fluffy pink socks which had recently invaded his daydreams with such shameful frequency, and crawling bit by bit atop her, sinking his knees domineeringly on both sides of her small figure as she awkwardly helped him take off her baby blue sweater, avidly waiting for him to make his final move.

Years later, the Prince would still recall just how insanely adorable she’d looked to him that night, clad in nothing but her everyday cotton underwear, plain white adorned by a girly pattern of those bright red strawberries she loved so much. Just like it would take him far too long to understand that she’d been just as nervous as he had, as if they’d both intuitively known, even back then, that once they gave into each other, there would be no going back.

“Do…? Do you want to stop?” Bulma asked weakly when she sensed his vacillation, tremulous mouth breathing heavily against his as he kept still, staring anxiously at her as he committed to memory everything that she was, every beautiful curve and gesture, never wanting to forget her just as she was tonight.

Her insecurity moved him like nothing ever had, fervently putting her mind to rest with a smoldering kiss, basking in his own relief when she passionately kissed him back. A flash of scarlet seared his cheeks when her lips smirked playfully against his, giggling excitedly as she reached her back to unhook her bra by herself, when it soon became obvious that his clumsy hands had never before handled such a bizarre garment.

Vegeta’s hands hurried to get rid of whatever remained of his clothes, his need intensifying when her eager little fingers frantically reached down to his belt, unbuckling it with frenzied impatience as he unzipped his jeans, rapidly discarding them with the help of those feverish legs, wriggling and twisting against him until he was fully naked before her.

There was no indecision anymore, not even shame at the way his body was already reacting to her closeness, yanking off her panties as he kissed her again, a deep grumble reverberating in his chest when one of her hands draped itself around his hardness, while the other one settled fiercely on the back of his neck, pressing her mouth even harder against his, and nipping at his bottom lip as she sensually stroked his length.

Bulma’s movements were slow, sensuous, dazed blue eyes feasting on the masculine face contorting in pleasure at her timid but expert touch, squeezing his eyes shut in some poor attempt at self-control as he felt himself already coming undone with agonizing ease, his dam shattering, hopelessly exposed to the only woman who’d ever own his heart.

“Bulma…” He implored helplessly, exhaling a heavy sigh of release when she guided him to her wet entrance, plunging inside of her, burying himself to the hilt as a breathless cry tore up her throat.

“S-Slowly…” Bulma pleaded, teasing his lips with hers, clammy hands still barely holding onto his corded neck as she struggled to accommodate him.

He quietly fulfilled her wishes, just as he always would, bowing shakily, and reading the poem writing itself on her lovely face as she threw her head back, sobbing in bliss when his hips set out a new pace, slow and deep, a rhythmic quest to get to know, and possess, every beautiful part of her.

It was impossible, it was impossible for such a woman to ever fully belong to him, but perhaps, tonight, as they made love under the warm protection of her sheltering fire, they could pretend. They could pretend that he wasn’t who he was, and that every conceivable sin didn’t hang over his head, fooling themselves into the impossible fantasy of being just a man and a woman, giving into each other in the most ancient and primal of rituals.

Bulma’s rosy cheek met the opulent rug as she pressed it against it, closing her eyes and pouting deliciously, filling the room with soft, muffled moans that were like music to the Prince’s ears.

He held as tightly as he could, clutching one of the thighs possessively encircling his waist with one of his arms as he cradled her delicate head in the curve of the other, gently removing a damp curl from her pale forehead as his nose found her temple, nuzzling her darling face while drowning in her provocative aroma. Her porcelain skin was already coated in a thin sheen of moisture, glistening faintly under the warm, flickering radiance of the fire, and it was becoming impossible not to get lost in the thick, lusty scent of sex heavily permeating the air.    

“Vegeta…” She whimpered with want, supplicant eyes finding his as her hands descended uncontrollably from his shoulders to his perfect bottom, nails digging into his unyielding flesh and pulling harder, inviting him to rush that luscious, animalistic flow already making her fall into pieces in his arms.

His dizzy mind might have lost any semblance of reason long ago, but his body knew just what she needed, gladly caving in, giving her his all, anything she’d ever want, by quickening his pace and thrusting faster, harder, stripping the most extraordinary cries of pleasure out of her lips, and forever keeping them to himself.

He heaved a relieved breath of gratitude when Bulma hid her smitten face in the crook of his neck, never letting go of him, but sensing how vulnerable, how incredibly unguarded he was feeling in that instant. His body told her that he’d had other women during his turbulent past, but an even stronger instinct was screaming at her that he’d never had someone in such an intimate way.

And she was right for, as Vegeta held securely onto her, glorying in that sweet, fluttery voice, whispering words of encouragement and desire in his ear, and confessing how much she liked, how much she loved what he was doing to her, he knew that it’d never been like this.

He’d never had the honor to experience this wistful emotion taking a hold of him, loving hands touching and caressing him as if he were the only man in existence, or that rush, that exhilarating rush of satisfaction when he felt that small, hopelessly soft body writhing in ecstasy underneath him as her impending climax ripped through her.

She tightened urgently around him, a stream of blinding electricity ravaging her as she cried his name with intense ardor, crumbling in his arms, those ravenous arms pulling her even closer, insatiably nestling her body against him, already bursting at the seams, grappling with his own desperate need to succumb to her.

“I-It’s okay… You can let go…” Bulma’s trembling voice murmured into his skin, gently seducing him as she recognized the aching tension overpowering him, beckoning him to surrender, to forget about his every haunting inhibition and give himself to her, if only this once. “Let go, Vegeta…”    

The ghost of a string of alien words ruptured from his lips as he spilled himself inside of her, a deep grunt thundering in his lungs, swamped by the sensation of those silky arms and legs still clinging to him, never abandoning him, never letting go, relishing his own peak of pleasure as if it were her own.  

Vegeta fell tiredly on top of her, without thinking, without speaking, melting powerlessly under the soothing power of that pair of shuddering hands fondling and stroking his magnificent skin, kissing and petting his hair, and happily luring him to stay with her for as long as he’d ever want to, the sad atlas of tortured scars tainting his back suddenly feeling just a little closer, a little less foreign than it used to be.

A soft, snug blanket carefully covered his stark-naked form, enveloping him in a cottony cloud of safety, almost as soft as the woman providing it for him, heavy eyelids drooping on her contented shoulder, vaguely registering the distant uproar of the stormy blizzard pouring outside, and the crisp rustle of the logs gradually turning to ashes in her luxurious fireplace.

For a lifetime of carnage, snow had always signified the most degrading pain, and fire nothing but cancerous destruction. But, on a cold Christmas night, everything was Her, and the first dreamless sleep he’d ever been blessed with as he peacefully dozed off in her caring embrace.    

  *sigh*

It looks like Veggie finally got to discover what Christmas is all about?

I hope you've enjoyed my lil' Christmas stories so far! I know it's not Christmas anymore, but I may add a few more chapters in the future, if you guys are okay with it, since I had some little tales in mind that I really wanted to explore.

Anyway, thanks so much for reading, as always, and I hope you all have the BEST 2019!!!

*hugs*

[maevefiction]

Your Light in the Mist - Chapter 50

Luke and Simon finished up their move on November 30th, and we closed on the penthouse December 2nd. I’d been busy getting things sorted at the office, and though Tom had begun packing there was still much more to do before the company we’d hired to relocate all our worldly belongings showed up on December 15th. We figured that would give us just enough time to settle in before Christmas, which Diana would again be hosting this year. There were boxes everywhere, and at nearly seven months pregnant my ability to navigate tight spaces seemed to diminish a little more with each passing day. Since we’d been back there’d been intermittent discussions regarding what to name Prog, but everything we came up with just didn’t seem to fit. Roland had always been my first choice, but that fucker Simon had beaten me to it, and while I could technically still use it, I harbored zero desire to have to listen to him calling me a copycat for the rest of my natural life so it was officially off the table. Tom’s first choice was William, but almost immediately after mentioning it he recalled that was my ex-husband’s name and into the ‘nope’ pile it went. By the weekend of the 10th we’d gotten to the point wherein we were wrapping and packing our collectibles, AKA the socially acceptable term for adult-owned toys, at least in our case, anyway. Tom had donned his Indiana Jones fedora after finding it in the spare room and was humming the theme on and off while wielding a tape gun as if it were a weapon. I’d flopped down on the bed, at which point he’d decided to see if he could land the hat on my belly. One toss was all it took, which wasn’t surprising because an easier target would have been a challenge to establish, and I just let it remain there because removing it would have required entirely too much effort on my part. Prog decided to give it a kick, and with that, just as I’d know he was a boy, I knew his name. I sat up, hat in my hand, eyes wide. Tom stared at me, concerned.

“Everything all right?”

 Nodding, I waved the fedora at him. “This is it. The name. His name.”

 Tom’s left eyebrow rose as his head tilted to the right. “Fedora?”

 I rolled my eyes. “Really? No. Not fedora.”

 He pursed his lips, one hand rising to stroke his jaw. “Surely you don’t mean to call him Indiana. Though, that is rather cool, if I’m honest…but it sounds awful in conjunction with Hiddleston, doesn’t it?”

 I sighed heavily in exasperation at his lack of comprehension, be it genuine or a ruse, as to where I was going with this, shaking my head as I lowered my chin to my chest briefly, then turned my gaze back to him.

 “No, Tom. Not Indiana. His name is Henry. Henry Thomas Hiddleston.”

 His hand shifted from his jaw to cover his mouth, nearly concealing a gasp of surprise. He walked around the bed to kneel in front of me, fingers grazing my belly as he leaned forward. “Oh. Oh my. That’s it, you’re spot on. Henry. Hello Henry. Wow. Okay.”  He looked up so his eyes met mine, a huge smile spreading across his face. “Guess we’ll call the dog Indiana, then.”

 “Cat. We can call the cat Indiana.”

 He pouted. “A house isn’t a home without a dog, Maude.”

 “You know what? You’re right…a house isn’t a home without a dog. A hot dog. Which is what I want, like, right now.  Help a girl up so she can go grab one out of the fridge, m’kay? All cold and salty…mmm…”

 He obliged, taking my hands and providing a gentle boost. “I’d be more than happy to cook for you, you know…”

 “Thank you, but…nope. Cold hot dog. Maybe two. Or three.” He stuck his tongue out, shaking his head in mock disgust. I shrugged. “Can’t be helped. What Henry wants, Henry gets, you know?”

 He kissed the top of my head. “Oh, I know. What ‘Henry’ wants, is it?”

 As we entered the hallway, I punched him in the arm. “Listen, I’m going to milk this whole pregnancy thing as much as possible. It’s the first time in my life I’ve had a legitimate reason to behave like a diva on a regular basis.”

 “You’re no diva, love. You’re a goddess…my goddess, thank the stars…and should be treated accordingly.”

 “Well, I can’t argue with that.”

 He smirked. “Well, I feel as if I’ve achieved what I’d always thought was an impossible victory.”

 “Whatever. Hush up and fix me my hot dog.”

 “Hmmm, I thought Henry was the one who…”

 “Is that how we treat the goddess, Tom? Is it?”

 Bowing deeply, he took my hand and brought it to his lips as he gazed up at me. “No. No it is not. Shall I make it up to you by delivering your meal to the couch so you can sit back and elevate your legs?”

 I patted him on the head as he rose. “That’s more like it. Also, yes please. And thank you.”

 “C’est mon plaisir, Maude.”

 “Oh god, not the French.” I’d developed a bit of a kink for it over the past month, which he’d graciously accommodated. Rear entry was really the only position that worked well for us of late, and my libido had tanked considerably. Him talking dirty always got me in the mood, though, and when he spoke in French it was like my stupid maternity pants just fell right off. Once he’d discovered that saying literally anything in that particular language got me fired up, even if I had no idea what the fuck it meant, he began making a habit of interjecting it into our conversations when I least expected it.

 “Votre chaud chien vous attend.”

 I recognized a good bit of that, especially the words for ‘hot’ and ‘dog’. “Pretty sure hot dog in French is just…hot-dog, Tom.”

 “That’s not nearly as erotic as chaud chien, is it?”

 I groaned. “No. No it’s not. You suck.”

 He grinned. “We’ll see.”

 ****************************************

Once all our stuff was in place and put away, it became apparent that the penthouse was downright vast as far as space was concerned. The sofa and chairs blended in nicely with the modern design, and the tree of life rug looked perfect in front of the built-in white shelf that ran the length of the closed stair railing, but they seemed so much…smaller. Even the dining table was dwarfed by the openness, though it was, at least in part, sort of freeing…less cluttered living. The bar-style island required the purchase of new chairs so we could eat there when we felt like it, and I insisted upon the kind with backs as opposed to bar stools because I knew I’d end up ass over teakettle otherwise. Admittedly, there was an awful lot of white cabinetry throughout, but the floor to ceiling windows let in so much light it seemed much more New York flat-ish as opposed to New Orleans house-ish. The entry point was on the lower floor, within the rectangular portion of the building. Just inside the main door and to the left was a guest half-bath, with a hall door that led to two large bedrooms with full en suites. In the entryway, next to the door to the bedrooms, was a hall closet. Directly across the entryway from the closet was the double-door entrance to the circular portion of the building. Straight ahead through the doors and on the right-hand side of the circle there was a staircase to the second level, and to the left was a door to another small hallway that led to two more en suites, one average-sized rectangular bedroom and a a second three-sided bedroom comprised of two traditional walls and one curved measuring twenty-seven by eleven feet overall. Down past the staircase and on the left was the entrance to the twenty by eighteen-foot master suite, with a full quarter-circle glass wall on one side overlooking a forty by nine-foot terrace. The bath was also quarter-circle in shape, and the dressing room rectangular. We sacrificed some of the dressing room square footage in order to put in a door to the other semi-circular bedroom, figuring it would be an ideal location for Henry’s nursery. The upstairs footprint was identical to that of the lower level, though wide open except for the small wall that served to support the kitchen cabinetry. There was another half bath just off the kitchen in the squared-off dining room area, as well as sliders to the large private outdoor deck that overlooked Regent’s Park. Where to display our book collection was our biggest conundrum…the only section of appropriate public wall space was in the living room opposite the television and stairs, but the couch was backed against it so they’d have to be above and behind us, which would make it impractical to peruse them easily since they’d be difficult to reach. There was space for shelving downstairs just before the staircase, but not enough room for everything. The entry area was also an option, but still, not enough room. We decided to store them in the smallest bedroom until we’d grown accustomed to day-to-day living in the penthouse and had a better feel for the flow, especially since there were more pressing issues that required our attention at the moment. Issues like ‘holy fuck, what actually, like, goes in a nursery anyway and where do we buy this shit’.

 The answer to ‘where do we buy this shit’ was simple…the internets, thank you very much. As it turned out what goes in a nursery was also answered simply and included a.) place for the  baby to sleep, b.) place to dress the baby and conduct baby-waste removal and related clean-up activities, c.) place to store the things required for item b and finally d.) a rocking glider which was sold under the pretense of baby feeding and baby rocking but was more than likely a spot for the parental units to collapse because they were too exhausted to walk another fifteen feet to their bed after completing all of the aforementioned tasks. Things got complicated when the morons with minimal baby experience attempted to choose the design style for the nursery components while trying very, very hard to be mindful of the form over function rule but wound up falling down the ‘oh, we might need this too’ rabbit hole. There was the Baby Bay, a white three-quarter crib that attached underneath a mattress so there could be co-sleeping without the danger of rolling over and suffocating the infant, which seemed like a great idea since I’d decided I’d give breast feeding a go. Next was a tripod bassinet for upstairs that came complete with a curtain to block out light in case Henry needed to crash out while we were doing Adult Things. It looked like a teepee, and I questioned its stability but Simon said it was perfectly fine and that he’d ordered them for their old place above the office, which would function as a family-friendly home-away-from-home for him and Luke going forward. For when Henry was awake, a baby lounger was evidently required, and I chose a 3-in-1 bouncy-recliner model with a light wood base and a micro-fiber seat, finding myself left bitterly disappointed that such things, if available, were not easy to find in an adult size. All of the furniture was either white or grey, or white and grey, other than the clear acrylic rolling bookshelf, which looked like it was straight out of Magneto’s prison cell. The crib railings were white and the sides grey, and the nightstands and dresser/changer combo mimicked the same design, both sporting grey sides and white drawers. The glider was oversized...really oversized, and I was pretty sure Tom and I would be able to squeeze into it together when I was no longer a sci-fi movie sized dinosaur egg with appendages. It was grey mock-tweed, as was the ottoman, both with brushed chrome bases. We’d found a Mima Xari aluminum and black stroller that screamed ‘Maude! Shiny! For baby!’ but was priced at a ludicrous $1700…after watching several videos and evaluating the cost of the individual components we’d still need to purchase if we went with a different model, I gave in, reassuring myself that this was one of those rare instances wherein function and form melded perfectly. We copied Luke and Simon’s car seat and baby wrap choices since they’d been researching prior to the actual conception of the girls, and other than incidentals like diapers, clothing and bedding, Tom and I felt we were prepared for Henry’s arrival. Or at least we felt as such until we thought of yet another ‘oh, right, that’, which, for me, was a significant indicator that no one is ever fully prepared for such a momentous event and that parenting would probably be like everything else in life…a total ‘fake-it-‘til-you-make-it’ scenario. Shit happens, you deal with it. Which just happened to be my specialty.

 Christmas at Diana’s was peaceful, joyful and chock full of hilarity. No painful family secrets to be revealed, no anger, no resentment…a simple gathering of people who’d endured a great deal of ups and downs over the past twelve months and were feeling incredibly blessed to be in each other’s company while not-at-all politely competing for the title of Scrabble Champion. I knew that trying to keep the fact that I was carrying a boy under wraps would likely be an epic fail, so once we’d settled in on Christmas Eve Tom mentioned that we’d learned the gender and since we might slip up we’d prefer to tell everyone prior to such an occurrence. James wept at the news, beaming with pride as he strode toward me. I could feel myself bristling initially, but when he kissed his right palm and then placed it on my belly and said ‘first a granddaughter and now a grandson…how fortunate a man am I to see this come to pass’ I realized I’d read his reaction entirely incorrectly and felt like a huge jerk until I was distracted by a plate of scones being circulated among us.

 As part of her gift to us Diana asked if we’d allow her to paint a mural in the nursery, which was a fantastic idea, but drew attention to the fact that we’d yet to choose a theme. This was unacceptable in parenting circles, apparently. Worse, even, than not having a birthing plan that laid out every detail right down to the specific piece of music you wished to play as your baby emerged from your womb. Every theme we’d considered left us feeling ‘meh’ at best…they were either too gendered, too boring, too busy, or just plain fugly. Dr. Seuss had been a viable option for a day or two, but the more I stared at the bedding the less interesting it became and boom…suddenly, meh. On Christmas morning, after all our other gifts had been opened, Diana left the room briefly and returned with a large box wrapped in red foil and set it on the floor in front of the sofa Tom and I were lounging on. From her expression I discerned that she was both excited and nervous about us seeing the contents inside. She smiled sheepishly.

 “Now if you don’t have use for any of this, please don’t think I’ll be offended. And please don’t you be offended by my presumptuousness…it’s just that Tom was always very fond of…well, I’d best let you open it before I spoil things, shouldn’t I?”

 Inside was a plastic tub, which Tom lifted out and placed beside the gift box, jaw dropping as he removed the lid.

 “Mum, my god…is this what I think it is?”

 She nodded. “I saved all of your layettes and other special items from when you were babies, both because I love to look at them from time to time and because I thought you might want them for your own babies someday…” She trailed off, sniffling.

 Tom began removing onesies, rompers, footed pajamas, tiny t-shirts, shorts, and overalls…all of them bearing at least one character from the Winnie the Pooh series. I watched them pile up on his thighs until one in particular caught my eye. I reached for it, surprised by the fact that it was in such beautiful condition all these years later. It was a jumpsuit, the sleeves, collar and and ankle cuffs a cream-colored cotton, the rest a green, brown, yellow and cream plaid flannel with four white decorative buttons down the front. To the right and towards the bottom was an embroidered Pooh raking leaves, and to the left and near the shoulder was an embroidered Tigger appearing to be leaping out of the jumpsuit pocket while tossing leaves into the air. I couldn’t stop staring at it, Diana’s voice when she spoke sounding as if it was emanating from another room.

 “I’d always loved Winnie the Pooh, and so did Tom, right from the start. He’d get so excited when I’d sing him the theme song, even when he still fit in those clothes, his legs and arms flailing about…”

 Sarah snorted. “That’s still how he dances, to this day.”

 I smiled because she sure as shit wasn’t wrong, but could also feel myself tearing up as my fingers traced over Pooh and Tigger and the softness of the flannel, picturing Diana singing to Tom while he was wearing it, then imagining myself singing to Henry while he was wearing the very same garment. The tears began to flow, running down my cheeks in spite of my best efforts to not cry. I looked up at Diana and found her frowning, concern in her eyes.

 “Oh goodness, I’m so sorry, I didn’t…”

 I smiled through my tears. “No, no…please don’t be sorry. This…these…all beautiful…I just…I don’t have any of this sort of stuff and I’m so grateful that you do and that you’ve chosen to share it with me. With us. It means more than I can ever properly express. Thank you, Diana. So much. I don’t suppose that mural can be a scene from the Hundred Acre Wood, could it?”

 She gasped, her own tears glimmering with flashing colors, reflecting the tree lights. “Really? Well what an unexpected and perfect gift for me…yes, yes. I have one in mind already, actually…”

 Tom leaned in to wipe my tears with his thumbs and kiss my cheek, grinning. “That’s our theme problem solved then, eh?”

 I nodded, snuggling into his side. “Yep. Only one thing left on our list, really.”

 He draped his arm around my shoulders. “And what’s that?”

 I patted my belly. “Convincing Henry to exit the premises as scheduled.” He laughed, and I pointed my left index finger in his direction. “It’s a legitimate concern.”

 “It’s not uncommon to go past the due date, is it?”

 I shook my head. “No. But I’m crossing my fingers that l he’ll take after me as opposed to you in regard to timeliness.”

 As he began to speak Diana interrupted him. “Maude, perhaps it will ease your mind a bit to know that Tom was the only child I bore that wasn’t late. All downhill after that though, as far as being prompt goes, I’m afraid.”

 Tom attempted to speak again, only to be interrupted by me this time around. “So there IS hope after all…even if it’s fleeting, I’ll take it.”

 ****************************************

 Tom opened and held the Bull & Last’s heavy wooden entry door for me so I could waddle my way inside. Though I was now officially five days beyond my due date, we were out and about on a Friday night to meet Luke and Simon for a Tom’s day-late birthday and early Valentine’s Day celebration dinner. It was their first time out of the house together sans children since Persephone and Esmerelda had arrived on December 28th, and probably Tom’s and my last for a while. I’d covered the Prosper office from that point until Luke had returned on February 1st and I’d wanted to keep working, but Tom very gently suggested that perhaps I should take some time off to relax before Henry joined us. An argument ensued and I may or may not have called him a sexist asshole prior to discussing the matter via phone with Dr. Phillips who agreed that it was probably best to take it easy since I’d begun experiencing some edema, which he’d mentioned a week earlier but I’d decided to ignore. I considered calling him a sexist asshole as well, but Tom had clicked the end call button before I had a chance to properly evaluate the situation. After he retrieved a bag of truffles from the kitchen for me we’d had a little chat wherein we attempted to establish why I might be feeling the need to keep working, during which I stared him straight in the eye and said very matter-of-factly that there was a human growing inside me and it was going to come OUT of me and there was nothing I could do about it but maybe if I just kept going things would stay just as they were forever. AKA, I was scared shitless about the entire process, I felt powerless, I didn’t like feeling powerless, so I did something that made me feel powerful as a distraction so I wouldn’t have to face reality. Classic Maude, Impending Motherhood Edition. The fear had remained until three days ago when Henry did a somersault that nearly knocked me off the couch and I began having to pee every forty minutes or so. A few hours into that fuckery I was willing to try anything to get labor going, but when I’d gotten up this morning I’d found myself in a state of quiet acceptance. I’d gotten my wish…I was going to be pregnant FOR-EV-ER.

 We spotted the free birds at the corner window table, all the way at the back of the main room to the left of the fireplace. My black leather boots, which Tom had kindly put on for me since my feet and I hadn’t seen each other in four weeks or so, clunked as we made our way across the wooden floor. As we drew closer Simon stood and clapped.

 “Oh honey, I love that dress…” His clapping ceased as he tiled his head from one side to the other. “Maude. You’re waddling. Which you weren’t doing when I saw you Tuesday. Wowza.”

 “Yes. The waddling. I’m aware. Also, I can’t wear pants anymore and this is the only dress I could squeeze into that was suitable for public consumption but, you know, yay that you love it, I guess.” It was a tea-length black mock-turtleneck sweater dress, the merino wool blend making it possible to go without a coat, which was necessary since none of those fucking fit me any longer, either. I sighed as Tom pulled out the chair nearest the fireplace for me, then lowered myself down like a sloth. There was no need for him to push me in because my belly was already mere centimeters from the table. Simon was directly across from me, and he walked around the table and squatted next to me, tapping on my stomach gently.

 “Henry, I’m sure it’s cozy in there, but you really need to come out and play with us. Your friends Seph and Ez can’t wait to meet you.” The girls were, not surprisingly, gorgeous…both blonde, Seph with Luke’s brown eyes and Ez’s eyes a shade lighter than Simon’s grey ones. I’d held them both, separately, which was terrifying enough, thank you very much, but every time it was Ez’s turn Henry became far more active than normal. I’d even made a point of testing the theory, and it totally panned out. Seph, nothing. Ez, kicks and shifting aplenty. I had not a clue what the deal was, but it was fascinating nonetheless.

 I patted the top of Simon’s head. “I appreciate your efforts, kind sir. But I think he’s just a tiny bit…dare I say…stubborn. And I have no idea where he gets that from. Certainly not from me.”

 Tom sat, pulling his chair forward. “Not from me either. It’s an unsolvable riddle, in my opinion.”

 We all laughed as Simon returned to his seat, took a sip of his wine, planted a kiss on Luke’s cheek, then lifted his glass high. “Cheers, dear friends. To laughter, love and life.”

 Tom and I raised our water glasses and Luke lifted his very full beer mug carefully, all of us clinking in the middle. The waiter arrived with menus, and I stared at mine for entirely too long trying to find something that appealed to me. All of the entrees were a no, so I ordered sides – a bread basket, Buttermilk Chicken & Aioli, and Triple Cooked Chips. Tom opted for the Chargrilled Onglet, Simon the Chargrilled Aged Cote de Boeuf, and Luke the Beer Battered Haddock. Halfway through dinner I reached across to snag a piece of beef from Simon’s plate and felt a pop, then a rush of warm liquid between my thighs. I froze, and my expression was presumedly cause for concern because, in unison, the three of them asked if I was all right. I took a deep breath as I put down my fork and leaned back into my seat.

 “Well, I’m pretty sure my water just broke, so…I mean, I don’t know?”

 Tom whipped his phone out of the back pocket of his black dress pants, and I heard him greeting Dr. Phillips as I pondered my predicament. On one hand, I was thrilled, and on the other, frightened. Weren’t there supposed to be contractions first? Because I’d yet to have any, so did that mean something was wrong? I’d read about labor over and over but my ability to retain information had declined considerably throughout my pregnancy, which was a common occurrence. I shook my head.

 “But yet I remember that relatively unimportant fact in a rather ironic fashion.”

 Tom told Dr. Phillips that he didn’t recall me mentioning anything about it, then passed me the phone. He was white as a sheet, and I could tell he was trying very, very hard to not freak out. I took it from his shaking hand and held it up to my left ear, Dr. Phillips’s tempered Scottish accent causing me to envision Sean Connery, as per usual. He resembled him, really, though shorter and much rounder. Grey hair, bald on top with a closely cropped beard and piercing dark brown eyes. Kind of like a cross between Santa Claus and James Bond, in the business of delivering presents and a being a huge hit with the ladies.

 “Maude! Finally some news, eh?”

 “Uh-huh. I felt a pop, then a sploosh…but I haven’t had any contractions…is that normal? I know I knew the answer to that but I just…don’t anymore. Oy.”

 He chuckled. “Hormones wreak unexpected havoc, don’t they? Yes, it’s normal. But, you should head to the Portland tonight to check in. Labor usually begins within twenty-four hours after the amniotic sac starts leaking, and being in hospital reduces the risk of infection. Which is quite minimal, mind you. So, Tom said he couldn’t recall you mentioning any pain. Be that as it may, I’ll ask you in any case…have you experienced any pain?”

 “Other than my lower back screaming at me, no. And that’s nothing new. I mean, it does seem worse today than usual but…oh, shit. Back labor. Is this back labor, do you think? Also, as I do for all medical professionals forced to interact with me while I’m experiencing any sort of pain, I’m going to go ahead and apologize now not just for this singular instance of the use of profanity but for the hundreds of others you’ll likely be hearing until this whole birth thing is done and over with. So, sorry. Anyway…back labor?”

 “At what point did the intensity of the pain increase, Maude? A general timeframe is what I’m after here, so precision isn’t essential.”

 Throughout the entire duration of baby-harboring I’d kept as active as possible, doing yoga, walking outdoors and on the treadmill in our new gym, dancing when the spirit moved me…and I’d only gained twenty pounds. Up until four weeks prior I hadn’t felt constrained in any way, really, but by then I’d gotten so large that yoga was no longer possible and once the routine stretching ceased the muscles in my lower back became stiff and sore. It was most noticeable when I was standing for long periods and eased when I resumed a sitting position. When Tom and I had gone grocery shopping last night the pain had definitely been more pronounced, and it had continued even when I was in a horizontal position, trying to get some sleep between bathroom trips. I hadn’t thought anything of it because, frankly, I expected random physical components to begin failing the longer I continued to schlepp Henry’s estimated nine-plus pounds around. I squeezed my eyes shut as I answered the question, embarrassed by my ignorance.

 “Um, almost twenty-four hours ago.”

 There was a long pause, followed by Dr. Phillips first inhaling, then exhaling deeply. “All right then. As I said, next step is getting you to the Portland. May I speak with Tom again, please, Maude?”

 I laughed. “You’re going to tell him that I’ve probably been in labor for a whole day and we need to bust a move so I don’t give birth right here or something, aren’t you? Sure, you can talk to him…but I’m going to put you on speaker, okay?” I tapped the button, then handed the phone back to Tom, who wasn’t quite as white but still far paler than normal. He cleared his throat, then spoke.

 “I’m here, Dr. Phillips. We’re about fifteen minutes away from the hospital. Will that do?”

 “Get there just as soon as you can. Maude, if you begin to experience contractions, be sure either you or Tom track the time between. I’ll make sure everything is ready by the time you arrive. If things escalate quickly, call emergency services first, then me. All right?”

 Tom nodded, then remembered Dr. Phillips couldn’t see him. “Yes. Thank you. We’ll be leaving immediately.”

  Dr. Phillips assured us that everything would be fine, wished us luck, then hung up. Simon, who’d remained refreshingly subdued during the exchange, began babbling as Luke sipped his beer.

 “Ohmygod, okay, this is happening. It’s happening. Do you need us to drive you? We can drive you and bring your car down later. You have your go bag with you, right, Maude? In the car? Have to remember to get that on the way out…”

 I covered my face with my hands, my voice muffled as I spoke. “No. I do not have my go bag. My go bag is sitting in the hallway at home, where I put it so I’d remember to ask Tom to put it in the car when we left. It was in the car, but I decided to reorganize it for the hundredth time yesterday. Hence why it’s sitting. In the hallway. At home.”

 Tom gently pulled my hands away from my face and held them in his own, placed a kiss on each palm, then released them. “We’ll figure it out, love. First things first…we need to, as you said previously, bust a move.”

 Luke stood, and Simon followed suit. “Simon can use our vehicle to go back to the Atrium and pick up your bag, I’ll drive you in yours and we’ll all meet up at the hospital.”

 Just like they’d transitioned to a family vehicle, Tom and I had purchased a Range Rover Sport right after the holidays. I wasn’t a Jeep, but I’d deemed it acceptable, at least in the gunmetal grey body color. What I wasn’t prepared to deem acceptable was someone chauffeuring us in it on our birth pilgrimage…we’d decided that it would only be the two of us in the delivery room, hospital staff being the only exception, and I’d assumed it would be only the two of us on the way there as well. As I pushed down on the table and began to stand with the intention of stating that we’d be fine on our own but I’d really appreciate them picking up the enormous bag of shit I probably didn’t even need and dropping it off at the hospital, my first official contraction hit me like a freight train. I’d read that they were supposed to feel like menstrual cramps, but to me this…this felt more like food poisoning cramps on steroids. Once it passed I realized I had no concept whatsoever of how long it had lasted, or whether or not I’d remained silent. I didn’t recall having spoken, but that didn’t mean I hadn’t uttered some sort of reflexive primal scream. With the pain gone I was able to stand fully erect, and as I glanced to my right toward the bar no one was staring back at me so I figured I was in the clear as far as making a spectacle of myself went. For now, anyway. I turned to Tom, who was now standing as well, his eyes wide. The flash of utter terror I saw in them before he smiled at me changed my stance on being chauffeured.

 I nodded. “Luke, that sounds great. Thank you. Simon, you have the key, right?” He nodded in turn. We had a set of keys to their place and they had one for ours, just in case of an accidental loss, lock-out or in the event of an emergency situation. I would have thought the latter wouldn’t be the first time they’d be needed, but hey, the universe is full of surprises, isn’t it? Fucking A it is. The sensation of something crawling down the inside of my left leg diverted my attention downward, scanning the wooden floor and hoping I wouldn’t see any droplets of amniotic fluid. Nope, so far so good…but the chair I’d been sitting on hadn’t been so fortunate. It was shiny, as if it had just been wiped with a wet cloth, which it had been, in a way…but it was a woolen wet cloth, also known as my dress. I grabbed my napkin and dried the wood as best I could, then found myself wondering what the fuck to do with the soiled square of cloth. Putting it back on the table for our waiter to pick up would be super gross, and I’d left my purse in the car. Tom took note of my dilemma and reached out, grabbed the napkin and stuffed it into his front pants pocket. He was wearing a maroon sweater over a white button-down, and in that moment I loved him so fiercely it startled me. A sense of renewed energy and an almost absolute power flowed through me, and I took two steps toward him, then grabbed on to both of his forearms.

 “I’m ready. Let’s go have this baby.”

 He inclined his head in the affirmative, and I released him, then turned around and began to make my way toward the heavy wooden doors, pushing the one marked ‘exit’ outward. Tom was right behind me, close enough so no one would notice if there happened to be a dark spot on my dress…not that I gave a single fuck. I waddled my ass out into the night and down the sidewalk toward our car, my love in tow and my mind set on one purpose, and one purpose only…finally meeting our son.